


Crescendo

by smartalli



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: AU, Donna is Donna, Grammy once beat Sinatra in a poker game, Harvey had a mullet, Harvey is famous, M/M, Mike is not, Music and Lyrics AU, Romantic Comedy, no matter what she does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2024127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartalli/pseuds/smartalli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Music & Lyrics inspired AU.</i> Harvey Specter was on top of the world and on top of the charts – until his father died and his partner betrayed him, abandoning Harvey to launch his own solo career. Without him, without a partner to compose the music, Harvey’s career is in jeopardy. And with just a month left until his album is due, the clock is ticking. He thinks he’s done for, until he passes by a storefront and sees a man in a gray hoodie, hunched over in front of a piano, fingers flying over the keys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crescendo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starskeeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starskeeper/gifts).



> For starskeeper/gmacht. Vale is incredible, and a while back she wished for a M&L AU. I hope this even approaches something she’d want to read. And for Rachel, kindred spirit. _The Imperial March_ is more commonly referred to as “Dude, here comes Darth Vader”, and was composed by John Williams. Harvey is 35 here, making Mike 24/25.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [crazyassmurdererwall](http://crazyassmurdererwall.tumblr.com)

“Harvey. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Donna stops in front of him, crosses her arms over her chest, raises her eyebrow and taps her foot at him, hip cocked. She looks vicious in purple, lethal. Harvey would call it her power color, but he’s seen her in red. Green. Blue. Pink. Black. White. Gray. Marigold. Aquamarine. Taupe. All terrifying. Awe-inspiring.

He’s convinced if she cared even the smallest bit, she could take over the world in a heartbeat.

And organize the shit out of it.

“Three weeks, Harvey. Three weeks. Have you written anything new?”

“You’re my manager, Donna, not my producer.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. I do not, as a general rule, enjoy standing in your apartment at eight o’clock at night, looking as gorgeous as I do, trying to convince you to get over yourself and complete your album. Not when I _could_ be at dinner with the criminally good looking lawyer I met on Tuesday. He could be the future father of my children.”

“You say that every week.”

“This time I mean it. He actually forms complete sentences. He doesn’t live with his mother. He holds the door open for me. And his abs were carved from marble by the gods themselves.” She sits down on the coffee table in front of him, crosses her legs at the knee. “Have you made any progress at all?”

“I have the lyrics for seven songs.”

“But have you written any music?”

He settles back into the sofa, looks away. Unlike his father, who wrote hits for Ray Charles and John Coltrane and Tony Bennett, they both know composing music has never been his forte. Words are his thing. That’s why he’s always needed a partner.

Something Harvey hates.

“That’s a no, then. Do I need to remind you of the timeline?”

“No.”

“Good. Then it’s time to discuss hiring someone.”

“No.”

“You need a new writing partner.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Don’t be a child. We both know you do.” She softens. “I know Tanner screwed you over, but if you don’t get a partner, there’s no way you’ll be done by the deadline.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. Why don’t you give Tanner a ring, see if he‘d like to hire you back as his manager?”

Donna rolls her eyes impatiently. “Please. If I wanted Tanner back, I could get him back. I got you in the divorce. And that was my choice.” Harvey pauses, nods finally. “I’ve set up interviews for tomorrow. We’re going to find someone for you to write with, someone better than Tanner, and you are _going_ to get this album done.”

He pauses, stares at her a moment. “How long ago did you set up the interviews?” He narrows his eyes. “A couple of days? A week?”

She waves her hand in the air vaguely. “Something like that. I’m not going to let you sabotage yourself, if I can help it. And I can.” She stands, smoothes her skirt. “First one is at eight am. Now...I’m going out with a devastatingly handsome man, and I’m going to get laid tonight. Because I deserve it.”

“Is that any way to talk about the future father of your children?”

“Get some rest, Harvey.”

+

It’s just as bad as Harvey’s afraid it’s going to be, and when the last interview leaves at 3 PM, they’re no closer to finding someone for him to write with than they were when the day started.

And he’s lost a valuable day of writing time, on top of it.

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“His major musical influences include Justin Bieber and the Pussycat Dolls, and the “original” piece he played was a shoddily plagiarized version of Oops, I Did It Again.”

“Okay, so he was terrible. There were other prospects.”

Harvey stands, sighs, picks up his coat and slips it on.

“Harvey, you need to choose one of them.”

“I need to take a walk.”

He walks away from her, toward his front door, and she calls after him, “Harvey, you only have three weeks. You need-”

“Donna, I’ll hire someone.” At her disbelieving look, he adds, his hand on the door knob, “I will. But right now, I need to take a walk. Lock up on your way out.”

+

Harvey’s always liked Manhattan in the fall, just before twilight, when the city’s identity is switching to match its inhabitants. His father always liked it too, used to take Harvey out on walks with him when Harvey was a kid. His dad always said if you listened close enough, you could hear the moment it happened, the moment the city shifted and became something else entirely. He said it was inspiring. That one city could be so many things to so many different people.

Harvey used to think so too.

Harvey’s phone flashes Donna’s name for the sixth time since he left his apartment, and he rejects the call, turns his phone off.

He should’ve left it at home.

She means well, he knows that, which is why he humors her, something he doesn’t make a habit of doing with anyone else. But no number of Justin Bieber influenced idiots is going to solve his problem, no matter how well-intentioned. There’s just no way he can reach the level of intimacy and familiarity necessary to craft a great album with someone new in just a few short weeks. It took years with Tanner.

And that turned out so well.

A woman exits the store in front of him, holding the door open for her companion, and Harvey turns his head to look in through the glass when he hears piano music filtering out onto the street. There’s only one person in the piano storefront as far as Harvey can see, a man sitting on a bench in front of a black baby grand, thoroughly absorbed as his fingers fly across the keys. He’s mid 20s, maybe, possibly younger, in a t-shirt and jeans and a well worn grey hoodie, and he looks like he doesn’t belong there.

His fingers, his hands, his posture, say otherwise.

Almost before he realizes it, Harvey’s inside the store, edging toward the man at the piano. He’s thoroughly absorbed in his playing, a bright, upbeat song with complicated progression, and his fingers dance, the song and the piano at his mercy. Harvey doesn’t recognize the song, and finds himself drawn more and more into the melody when the man cuts off abruptly, his fingers suddenly failing, like they don’t know where to go next. 

“How many instruments do you play?”

His head swivels sharply, and he gasps, eyes wide, arms flailing. “Shit!”

“How many instruments do you play?”

He shakes his head, rubs a hand over his face and through messy hair as he sucks in a breath. “Eight. Nine, if you include the triangle.”

“I don’t.”

“Then eight.”

Harvey nods. “The piece you were playing, is that yours?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s fairly new?”

“Yeah...I just started working on it a couple days ago.”

Harvey nods, looks up when an older man appears out of a door at the back of the shop marked _Employees Only_.

“Mike, I’m locking up in fifteen minutes, okay?”

Mike nods. “Thanks, Mr. Powell.”

Mr. Powell nods, waves Mike’s thank you off with a hand.

“Does it have lyrics?”

Mike shakes his head. “None of my songs do. I’m...not so great with the lyrics. Every time I try, they always end up sounding like self-indulgent eighth grade poetry.”

Harvey’s lips quirk. “How many pieces have you written?”

Mike’s brow furrows and his eyes become unfocused. “Uh...” He huffs out a breath, looks at Harvey. “Recently, or in total?”

Too many to count off the top of his head, then. Good. He’s prolific.

“Can you sing?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not sure?”

“No, I mean...yeah, yes. I can sing.”

He nods. “Play something else.”

He seems to consider Harvey for a moment before he scratches his neck, shrugs, starts playing _The Imperial March_.

Harvey barely hides his smile when Mike looks over at him innocently. Cute. “No. Something else you’ve written.”

Mike shifts tack, pauses with his fingers curling and uncurling slowly above the keys before he drops them and begins to play. The song is slow, sweet, but somehow also yearning and mournful, and Harvey resists the sudden impulse to pull Mike’s hands off the keys and do something he might regret, something entirely too familiar for someone he’s just met.

“Where did you train?”

Mike continues to play, slowly turns his head briefly to look at him again. The song begins to settle, like an ache, in Harvey’s chest. “How do you know I trained anywhere? Maybe I’m self taught.”

“You probably are self taught, but not on piano, and not on probably at least two more of those eight instruments.” He pauses, tilts his head. “Am I wrong?”

Mike smiles to himself, shakes his head. “No, you’re not wrong. I went to Julliard.”

“But you didn’t graduate.”

“You caught that, huh?”

“Why didn’t you graduate?”

Mike sighs, stops playing abruptly. “I needed money, so I let a friend convince me to sell tests. And then I sold a test to the dean’s daughter. So they kicked me out.”

Mike’s phone rings and he slips it out of the pocket of his hoodie, hesitates when he sees the name on the screen.

That’s all Harvey needs.

“Don’t answer that.”

Mike looks up, confused. “Why not?”

“Because if you do, you’re going to get talked into doing something stupid again, and this time it’s probably not something you can come back from.”

“How do you know that?”

The ringing of the phone is sharp, grating, and Harvey wants to reach out, take Mike’s phone himself, and throw it against the wall to shut it up.

“Because I read people.”

“You read people?”

Harvey hums, nods. “It’s the same guy who got you to sell tests, isn’t it? How much did he say you could get this time?”

Mike sags. He isn’t even going to try to lie. “Twenty-five grand.” 

“Are you a drug addict?”

Mike sits up. “No!”

“An alcoholic?”

“No.”

“Do you have a child you need to support?”

“No.”

“Then why do you need twenty-five grand?”

He deflates. “It’s for my grandmother. I’m responsible for her care. She’s in a pretty good nursing home right now, but they’ve raised their rates and if I can’t come up with the money in a couple of days, they’re moving her to a state home. Do you know what state homes are like? I’m _not_ putting her in one.”

Harvey nods, watches Mike’s gaze slip away and his fingers drift over to the keys, pushing them so slowly the piano produces no sound. He’s embarrassed by his outburst, uncomfortable that he told a stranger so much.

“I assume it’s happening tonight, whatever he wants you to do.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Body language.” 

Mike looks over at him, resigned. The kid is practically an open book right now, projecting his anxiety, his indecision, his fear. It’s leaving a bad taste in Harvey’s mouth.

“What time did he tell you to show up?”

“Seven.”

The phone stops ringing, and Harvey and Mike both look down at it.

Harvey slips a business card out of his pocket, writes his address on the back, and holds it out to Mike. “I’ll make you a deal. Help me finish my album, and I’ll give you the twenty-five grand you need for your grandmother as a bonus up front, plus royalties from the album and a sizable sum for finishing.”

“Album?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Mike. It doesn’t become you. I know you know who I am.”

Mike concedes that with a nod, takes the business card from Harvey, his cheeks pinking slightly.

“Show up at my place tonight at seven instead, cut off all contact with this guy, and I’ll write you a check.”

“It’s not that easy. Trevor’s my best friend.”

“Trevor’s an asshole.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to. How long have you known him? Just about your entire life?”

Mike gives a half nod. About right, then.

“He uses that to his own advantage. He preys on your trust and faith, and you let him because you think you don’t deserve better. Is he a musician?”

Mike looks confused. “No.”

“So you have an incredible talent that was being fostered at a prestigious music school, and your best friend convinced you the best way to make a quick few bucks to help out your grandmother was to sell tests. You were becoming who you were supposed to be, and that meant you were growing away from him, and he didn’t like that. So he set you up to fail, knowing that when you did, you’d go back to him. And he told you they were all idiots, and assholes, and they didn’t appreciate you. Well, he’s preying on your love for your grandmother and your affection for him again. Only this time you won’t get kicked out of school, you’ll get thrown in prison for distribution, or, best case scenario, possession with intent. It’ll change the rest of your life. And not for the better. 

“So don’t answer the phone. Show up at my door at seven instead, and let me help you earn back the life you had yanked away from you. The life you always knew you deserved.”

Harvey walks away from him, pulls open the door to the store. 

“And what if I don’t show up?”

Harvey looks back at Mike, standing in front of the baby grand, Harvey’s business card clasped in both hands, and says, “Then I’ll know you’re not the partner I’m looking for.”

+

Harvey taps the end of his pen against the yellow legal pad resting on his right thigh, re-reads what he’d just written, pauses before scratching it out.

No. Not right.

He takes a sip of his scotch, sets it back down, doesn’t even pretend his eyes aren’t straying to the clock on the wall.

6:58

His eyes move to the grand piano on the other side of the room, at his father’s picture on the wall next to it, his sax in hand, his face open and lit up in laughter. His dad would say that giving Mike this opportunity was the right choice, that trusting his gut was important. His dad believed in things like that, and he taught Harvey to believe in them too.

Harvey wonders what Gordon would have to say about the way things ended with Tanner. Forming their partnership had been gut instinct too. Of course, Gordon had never liked Tanner, always said he wasn’t the right fit for Harvey or his music, so it’s probable neither their partnership falling apart nor Tanner’s part in it would have surprised him at all. 

Gordon would’ve liked Mike, Harvey thinks. He had an ear for talent, an eye for character. First impressions, he always said, told you a lot about a man. Not everything, but more than most people realize. Mike – his obvious talent, his clear desire to do right by the people he loves even to the detriment of his own success – would’ve intrigued him. And Gordon wasn’t a stranger to giving a sad case a shot.

Harvey still remembers the floppy eared puppy his father brought home on a rainy day when Harvey was nine, and the argument that had ensued in the kitchen between Harvey’s parents. He’d sat on the ground, against the wall in the hallway, and listened to his mother yell over the sound of the pounding rain. The puppy had wandered into the hallway, still damp and shivering, and Harvey picked him up, set him in his lap, cocooned him in the folds of his bathrobe. Like father, like son.

There’s a knock on the door and Harvey rises, sets his legal pad down and strides across the apartment.

He pulls open the door, pleased when he sees Mike standing in the hallway, Harvey’s card still clutched in his hand, the corners already curled from being held, handled.

“You think I’m talented?”

“I do. And I think you’re pissing it away.”

“And you want to help me stop pissing it away.”

“I want to finish my album. I want it to be great. And I think you’re tired of settling for less than you know you deserve, and you want to make something great too. Something yours. I can help you get that.”

Mike nods, slips the card into the back pocket of his jeans, squares his shoulders and looks Harvey in the eye. “When do I start?”

“Now.” Harvey steps back, pulls the door open wide to let Mike in. “But first, you’re going to tell me everything.”

Mike swallows. “Everything?”

“About cheating, about Trevor. If it can be used against us, I want to know about it. Even if you think it can’t, I want to know. I make it a policy never to be surprised. And the last thing we need is a reporter blindsiding us during an album release.”

“So...everything then.”

“Everything.”

+

Harvey walks out of the kitchen, glass of water held by the rim in his right hand, and walks over to Mike. He sets it down on the table next to the piano and Mike hums out a quiet, distracted noise of thanks as he erases a quarter note on the sheet music in front of him and replaces it with a half note, one step higher. He plays a two bar sequence and seems pleased, testing out a couple of new notes on the end. He shakes his head at both his choices, plays a three note sequence over and over and over again. Harvey reaches out on his seventh attempt and strikes G sharp before Mike can put his finger down and Mike looks up at him, surprised.

Caught in his own little world.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

Harvey waves him off, slides the promised check across the surface of the piano toward him. “It’s past two in the morning. You should go home, get some sleep.”

Mike rests his hand on top of the check and Harvey walks away, toward his bedroom.

“If it’s okay with you I’m going to stick around a little longer, see if I can finish this up. I’m almost there.”

Harvey nods. “Fine.”

Mike gets back to work, pulling one foot up and under him as he leans forward over his sheet music and begins to play softly from the beginning. He nods his head when he gets to his previous stopping point, but keeps playing, throwing in a few new notes just to see if they work. He smiles when they do, grasps his pencil, scribbles the notes in.

He picks up the glass of water and takes a large sip before he starts playing from the beginning again, and Harvey disappears into his bedroom to change for bed.

He doesn’t peer back out toward the living room from his cracked bedroom door to watch Mike work, and he isn’t pleased when he looks at the glass of water and sees it’s mostly empty.

He doesn’t leave his bedroom door cracked, so he can listen to Mike work as he falls asleep.

+

“Oh, good. You’re up.”

Harvey blinks at Mike as he steps out of his bedroom, looks across the living room to see Mike exactly in the place he left him, hoodie strewn over Harvey’s chair, shoes in a tumble at the foot of the piano bench. He’s wearing the same clothes he was when Harvey went to bed, just a little more rumpled, and the empty glass on the table near the piano now has a couple companions in the form of a mug and a plate with a half eaten bagel.

“Did you even go to bed?”

“No. I just kept writing and writing and before I knew it, it was six thirty, so I ran a couple errands and got breakfast and came back. I haven’t been in this much of a groove in...it’s been a while.” 

There’s something satisfied, something earnest and happy and excited and complete in Mike’s smile, and Harvey would never be so cruel as to take it away from him, not when he’s just gotten it back.

Still, Mike will be no use to him if he keeps going at the rate he is. It’s unsustainable.

“Fine. But when you finally crash today, don’t fight it.”

“Yeah, of course. You got it.” Harvey guesses he has no intention of stopping, if he can help it, no matter how tired he is. Mike smiles and says, “I made coffee, and I brought back bagels and fruit.”

Harvey makes himself a cup of coffee – it’s not bad, a bit strong, maybe – and fixes himself a plate, then walks back into the living room to find Mike waiting for him, watching him nervously from his seat at the piano. When he’s finally settled in his chair, plate balanced on his crossed legs, he says, “So you finished the first song.”

Mike nods, eagerly, motions toward the keys. “Do you want me to...”

Harvey nods, takes a bite of his bagel.

“Okay, so, you start out singing the first four bars a capella, right?” He starts to sing, soft and sure, but stops to add, “And then the music comes in.” Then he swivels around on the bench, and begins to play, and the same song that was only half finished when Harvey went to bed comes alive, Mike playing and singing enthusiastically. The words Harvey wrote are about triumph and celebration and Mike has written music that is bright, victorious, confident.

Mike spins back around on the bench after he finishes, licks his lips as his eyes search Harvey’s nervously.

“Well? What do you think?”

The thing about being partners with Travis Tanner was that they always did their work separately. They spent most of their partnership away from each other. Tanner wrote music and then Harvey wrote lyrics. Always that order, every time. And Tanner never asked what Harvey thought, just as Harvey never asked what Tanner thought. It’s no wonder their partnership fizzled out.

This is the first time Harvey’s words have come first, that the music has had to rise to meet him. And the first time he hasn’t had to explain his vision.

Mike just understood.

“I think we have nine more songs to finish before we have an album.”

Mike begins to smile, holds out his hand. “Well, hand over the lyrics then. Let me get to it.”

Harvey yanks a couple of sheets out of his yellow legal pad, hands them over. “Demanding, aren’t you?”

Mike grins as he picks up his pencil and writes Harvey’s name at the top of a new piece of sheet music, his own just underneath.

_Music and Lyrics by Harvey Specter and Mike Ross._

+

By the time Donna shows up just past five, bearing Chinese and a look designed to kill, the second song is complete and Mike has started the music on the third, something he’d still be working on if the day hadn’t finally caught up to him and made him crash so hard he was falling asleep at the piano.

Harvey maneuvered him toward the sofa before he could fall off the piano bench, and that’s where he’s been for the last few hours – stretched out, asleep, facing the back of the couch, snoring lightly as Harvey sits next to him in his chair, working on lyrics for the eighth song.

Donna sets the Chinese down on the kitchen counter, walks over toward them and comes to a stop in front of the couch.

She gives an unimpressed huff. “This is him?”

“This is him.”

“He doesn’t look like much.”

Harvey looks over at Mike, sleeping soundly, somehow smaller in sleep. “He doesn’t, does he?”

Harvey stands, walks over to the piano, sits down and begins to play the second song Mike finished only a few hours ago, one Harvey named _The Bridge_. It’s soft and slow and hopeful with a slow build to a crescendo, and it’s about getting things you never thought you’d have, never thought you’d deserve. When he finishes, he looks over at Donna.

“He’s better than Tanner.”

“Yep.”

“I expect a full explanation.”

“Of course you do.”

She looks down at Mike on the couch, considers him. “He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.”

Harvey stands from the piano bench. “Other than the bagel he had this morning, that’s probably true.”

She looks over at him. “It’s a lucky thing I always order too much Chinese.”

“Incredibly lucky.”

+

“Kicked out of Julliard?”

Harvey leans back in his chair, throws his napkin onto the table. “He’s talented.”

Donna hums her agreement. “And damaged. You are your father’s son.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Donna sets her fork down on her plate. “Don’t get indignant with me. It’s not an insult, Harvey. Gordon was one of my favorite people too. And we both know he had a thing for the underdog. Or do I need to remind you about the free music lessons he gave to low income kids?” Her eyes flit over his face. “He’d be proud of you, you know. For fighting for this, for helping someone else...for not sinking to Tanner’s level.”

“How long was I out?”

Harvey looks down at his watch, looks back up at Mike, running a hand through sleep mussed hair, standing in bare feet in the doorway to the dining room. “About four and a half hours.”

He lets out a discontented little whine. “Why’d you let me sleep so long?”

His words are still a little slurred, and the truth is, were it in Harvey’s control, he would have forced him to sleep even longer. “Because you needed it. This is Donna, our manager.”

Mike tries to shake the cobwebs out and holds out an earnest hand to her, saying, “Hi. I’m-”

“Mike. I know.” She stares at his hand, looks back up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Wonder Boy with the messy personal life. Are you going to let it affect Harvey’s work?”

“ _Donna_.”

Mike retracts his hand, says a vehement, “No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going to screw this up for him. I’m not.” He lifts his head, stares her down. “And I’m not going to screw it up for me, either.”

“The puppy has some bite.” Her eyes slide over to Harvey, slide back to Mike. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Did I stutter?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

Donna is only standing up for him, he knows. Fighting for him. She’s been a little overprotective, a little wary of anyone new in his life ever since Tanner up and quit to go solo. But she doesn’t have to worry about Mike. If Mike disappoints Harvey, it’s not going to be because he betrayed his trust. It’ll be because Harvey expected better of him, and Mike answered Trevor’s call anyway.

“Sit. Eat.”

Mike practically falls into his chair at Harvey’s command and begins to load up his plate, shoveling a forkful of chow mien into his mouth to Donna’s slight revulsion.

“So...team. Where are we?”

Harvey’s mouth quirks when Mike bites into an egg roll with a sigh. “Two songs complete, partially through the third, I’m working on lyrics for the eighth song.”

Mike perks up, swallows. “Do you want to hear them?”

“She’ll hear them when you’re finished. Eat.”

Mike sheepishly goes back to eating, dutifully doing as he’s told, and Harvey looks over at Donna to catch her watching him with amused interest.

“So that’s about nineteen days to finish eight songs.”

“Your math skills are excellent as always.”

“Eat faster, Mike. You have a lot of work to do.”

+

Mike has moved onto guitar for the third song and Harvey hears him strumming quietly from the floor next to his chair, mumbling to himself in frustration. He’s been stuck on the same section of the song for a while now, and the more he’s stuck, the more soft grunts and sighs he lets out. He plays another note, grunts in frustration again.

It’s a bit distracting.

“Mike, if something isn’t working, move on. You’ve been playing the same section over and over for an hour and a half.”

Mike looks up at him with wide, apologetic eyes. “Sorry. But that’s just the way it works. I have to keep playing it until I figure it out.”

Harvey rubs at his eyes with his hand. “Well, can you figure it out somewhere else then? Somewhere not right here?”

There’s a silence, and when Harvey lifts his hand and looks down at the floor, Mike is paused with his hand on the guitar in his lap, looking down, confused. He nods his head, sets the guitar down gently, and picks up the pages he was working on, stands as he puts the pencil behind his ear. He slips on his shoes and grabs his hoodie from the arm of the couch, where Harvey moved it, and gives a nod in Harvey’s direction before he walks toward the front door.

“Mike-”

“It’s late. I should be getting home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mike is slipping through the doorway before Harvey can say anything in response, and the firm shutting of the front door echoes through his otherwise silent condo.

+

Harvey tries to keep working, but gives it up after an hour for bed when he’s made no progress whatsoever.

Suddenly it’s just too damn quiet.

+

Mike shows up at the condo just after ten the next morning, when Harvey has finally decided to stop stalling and put breakfast away.

He brought his guitar with him and he looks rung out, tired and strained at the edges. He sets the guitar case down on the couch, opens it up and pulls out the well loved instrument, avoids looking Harvey in the eye.

The guitar is old and worn, covered in band stickers, and Harvey imagines Mike found the guitar and rescued it from the dusty corner of a thrift shop when he was still a teenager, that half of the stickers were there when Mike found it. He probably gave a lot of thought to every sticker he added to the damn thing, like it had a vaunted heritage that he couldn’t bear to sully. The guitar is nothing special, some no name model that’s probably a bitch to keep tuned, but he imagines Mike is proud of that, holds it up like a badge of honor, a defiant kid to the core even now, when he could probably afford to replace it, move up to a better model.

“I finished the music for the third song.”

“Mike.”

He pulls the strap over his head, scratches at the curled up edge of a hot pink sticker for The Kinks on the body of his guitar, just under the pick guard. “I’m about halfway through the fourth song, but I figured you’d want to hear this one first.”

“Mike.” Mike finally looks up at him, resigned. Harvey sighs internally. He isn’t used to this, to having to explain his process, the way he works, to anyone. It’s strangely vulnerable, however necessary. He cannot complete his album without Mike. “When I said you should work it out somewhere else, I didn’t mean you should leave. I meant the balcony. Or my bedroom. Or the dining room. Or the guest room. Or the studio. My bathroom has great acoustics.”

“You should’ve said that.”

“I’m not used to having to explain myself. And I’m not used to distraction while I write. It’s taking some getting used to.”

Mike sits down on the arm of the couch, plucks at a few of the strings on the guitar absentmindedly. “When you say you’re not used to distraction-”

“Tanner and I never wrote in the same room together. He wrote the music, he’d send it to me, I’d write the lyrics, and then we’d record at different times in the studio.”

“You never wrote together? Not once?”

“Once or twice, maybe. In the beginning. But that got old fast. I didn’t like him much.”

“But he was your partner.”

Harvey nods. “He wrote good music. Made it a little easier to overlook how much of an asshole he could be.”

Mike mutters something under his breath, looks down at his guitar.

Harvey moves closer, looks down at him. “What?”

Mike looks up. “Nothing.”

“ _Mike._ ”

“It’s just...look.” He presses his lips together, scrunches his nose like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say. Or he does, but he’s worried how Harvey will take it. Finally he takes a deep breath and says, “His music is overworked and overhyped. He thinks the more complicated it is, the more artistic he is. Some idiot heard it and agreed, and then he put it on the radio, which was bad, granted, but then he _kept_ playing it – _everyone_ kept playing it – and that was probably the worst thing that could happen. Because all it did was convince him he was right.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it’s a wonder you decided to work with me at all.”

Mike shakes his head, frustrated. “Your lyrics are good, everyone knows that, but the two of you just never quite seemed to _fit_ together, and it showed in the music. It was never as good as it could have been. Frankly, I thought he was holding you back. You should’ve been writing your own stuff.”

Harvey nods, gives Mike a wry smile. “But that’s the problem. I can’t write my own music. If I could, you wouldn’t be here.” Harvey walks away, toward the kitchen. “Come eat something. Then you can play me the third song.”

Mike tries to wave him off. “I’m good.”

“That wasn’t a request.” Harvey makes a plate, places it on the breakfast bar in front of a stool, gives Mike a pointed look. “Sit down.”

Harvey puts a glass of orange juice down in front of Mike then continues cleaning up the kitchen as he eats. Despite his earlier protestations, from the way he’s attacking the food on that plate, Mike is clearly hungry. And it’s not just today. Every time Harvey’s put a plate down in front of Mike, he’s picked it clean.

“So what do you do for money when you’re not getting talked into being a drug mule?”

He shrugs, uses his toast to sop up a bit of remaining egg yolk. “Whatever I can. I play in the subway...guitar usually, sometimes violin. I take tests too...the SATs, the GRE, the LSATs.”

“You take the LSATs.”

He shrugs again. “I have an eidetic memory. The information’s already there, I may as well use it.”

“You actually make enough?”

“Enough to get by. Enough to take care of Grammy.”

But probably not enough to eat on a regular basis.

Mike shoves the last edge of toast into his mouth and slides down off the barstool, walking his plate over to the sink, where Harvey’s washing dishes. He slides his dirty plate into the sink and asks if he can help. Harvey shakes his head, and Mike walks off, grabs his guitar, comes back and hops up on the counter next to where Harvey’s working.

He serenades him with the third song as he works, then plays the fourth, telling Harvey sheepishly that “it’s not done, but whatever”. Mike plays it anyway, sings the lyrics Harvey wrote, and Harvey laughs when Mike stumbles at the end of the second verse, just before the bridge, and swears, matter of factly, then continues playing. 

Harvey expects him to stop at some point but he never does, and when he looks over Mike has an excited look on his face. Eventually he stops abruptly and hops down off the counter to race into the living room, pulls out the sheet music and a pencil, and begins furiously scribbling in notes.

He looks up at Harvey, wide smile in his face, and says, “Never mind. It’s done.”

He turns around, sits down, and begins playing the song all over again, testing out the new notes. He changes a few, but otherwise seems happy with it, and he plays it one more time before he sets that music aside, on the coffee table, and pulls out another sheet of yellow legal paper with Harvey’s lyrics. He leans over his guitar, reads the lyrics, and when Harvey walks into the living room, he sees Mike has closed his eyes and is mouthing some of the lyrics over and over again, his fingers gently tapping the sheet of paper in front of him.

Harvey sits down in his chair, crosses his legs, watches him. 

After a minute or so he sets the guitar down, gathers the lyrics and a couple pieces of sheet music paper, and hops up to settle on the piano bench. He puts his fingers down to play, but stops, swivels to face Harvey. “Is it going to be too distracting to you? I could start a different song.”

Harvey shakes his head. “You’re good.”

Mike smiles gratefully and turns back around, and Harvey sits and watches him work.

At this rate, they’ll be done long before the deadline.

+

Harvey’s stuck.

While Mike’s been skipping along through the lyrics, turning the fourth song into an actual _song_ , Harvey’s been sitting there, quietly, trapped in the exact same place he was when he sat down after breakfast, going over the same few lines over and over and over again, until one day turned into the next, and morning turned into evening.

He needs a break.

“Grab your jacket, we’re going for a walk.”

Mike looks up from his music, from the bridge he’s been working on for the last hour or so, and says, eloquently, “Huh?”

Harvey rolls his eyes. “Put your jacket on. We’re going out.”

Mike blinks at him then stands in a rushed, awkward jumble of limbs, sliding a bit on the sheet paper on the floor with a jerk and a grimace.

He stops, looks down at the ripped paper, then looks up at Harvey and says, “I think I’m gonna have to rewrite that. Should I do that now, or...”

Harvey walks toward the front door without another word.

“Right. When we get back then.”

+

“Why did you become a musician?”

They’ve been walking for a while, and Mike has been mostly quiet. It’s not quite like walking with his dad used to be, but it’s close enough to feel like something he’s done with Mike before, many times. He wonders how this would work if Gordon were here now, with them.

“It’s who my father raised me to be.”

The words could easily be taken as something joyless he guesses, or resigned, but they’re simply the truth, a matter of who his father is and who he is and how natural it felt to take every song his father gave him to love and try to recreate it himself. And when the music failed, when the words wouldn’t come, it felt natural to walk out the door with him, late in the afternoon, and roam the streets until the music returned.

It isn’t who his brother is. Marcus never felt the same pull, even though their father gave them the same music. But it’s who Harvey is. It’s who he always was. 

“Your father loved music.”

“He did. Loved to listen to it, loved to play it, loved to write it. When he was blocked, he’d walk the streets and figure out how to get unblocked.”

“Which is what we’ve been doing for the last half hour.”

Harvey nods.

Mike nods back, begins to hum as they walk, his hands in his pockets. He only gets about eight bars in before Harvey stops, stares, tilts his head at him. He knows that song. His dad taught him to play that song when he was eight. 

Ten years after he’d written it.

Mike stops, gives him an embarrassed little smile. “Confession: I grew up listening to your dad’s music. Grammy’s a big fan. Has every record he ever played on or wrote a song for. She taught me to play all his songs.”

“She _taught_ you.”

He smiles. “Before Julliard, there was Grammy.”

“And you? Are you a fan?”

Suddenly, Harvey has to know.

“What’s not to like? His melodies were beautiful...fluid. His words were...carefully chosen, deceptively simple, relatable.” Mike pauses, licks his lips. “My parents died in a car accident when I was eleven. And I was _eleven_ , so I didn’t really know how to talk about it without screaming or crying or...hitting something. Grammy didn’t know how to talk about it either, so instead she played one of your dad’s songs. And she taught me how to play it. _Lonely Boy_.

“This is going to sound stupid, maybe, but...sometimes a song comes along and it feels like it was written for you, you know? Like they’re singing it just for you and it...it makes you so happy you want to cry, or...it makes you feel like you’re not alone. That was _Lonely Boy_. And it made me want to write a song like that for someone else.”

Harvey understands that, probably better than anyone. How a song can change you, how it can move you, how it can heal up the sad, angry, broken places inside. How one song can mean absolutely everything to you. 

How one person can mean absolutely everything to you. How losing them can rip you up inside.

The first song Harvey played after his father died was _Lonely Boy_.

“So yeah...you could say I’m a fan.”

Harvey swallows.

“I wrote a song once.”

He doesn’t exactly blurt it out, but it’s close. 

“But I thought you said you-”

“Tanner stole it.” He looks over at Mike then, just to see his reaction. He looks pained, angry. “I’d been working on it off and on for years, but I finally finished it a couple of days before my dad died. Then everything went to shit. By the time the funeral was over, Tanner had already released my song as a single and launched his solo career.”

Harvey’s never had to say this out loud before, and he’s never wanted to. The basic facts are out there for anyone to know, and if they’re smart, they can read between the lines. But he just didn’t want Mike to have to, and to come to the wrong conclusion. Harvey’s never called Tanner out for what he did, but he was hurt by the betrayal. And that’s something he’s never said out loud.

“Harvey, why didn’t you fight it? Take him to court over that?”

“I’ve always been very careful to stay out of the tabloids. That’s by design. I want my music to speak for itself. I don’t want it to be overshadowed by controversy or speculation about the truth or all the other ridiculous bullshit that happens to musicians these days. A court case would’ve only served to drop a can of gas on the rumor that’s been out there for years that Tanner and I don’t get along.”

“You _don’t_ get along.”

Harvey looks at him. “He was my partner for twelve years.”

Mike spits out a frustrated sound somewhere between a yell and a growl. “Fucking asshole.”

Mike is standing there, looking at him, pink cheeked from the late fall bite in the air, the setting sun casting warm light across his face, looking angry and sad and defiant for him, and suddenly it hits Harvey, like a bolt from the sky. The Lonely Ones. That’s it.

Harvey turns without a word, throws out his arm and hails a passing cab. He pulls open the door and gets in and, when Mike doesn’t immediately follow, sticks his head out the doorway and says, “Get in.”

“But I thought we were walking.”

“We were. The walk is over. Get in.”

“The walk is-”

“Mike, if you don’t get in the cab right now, I’m leaving you here to walk back on your own.”

Mike hurries to the cab, slides in just as it’s starting to pull away. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes as the words begin to form in Harvey’s mind, as the structure of the first verse begins to take shape. Mike remains silent except for the quiet tapping of his fingers against his legs, forming the rhythm of the song he was working on when they left the condo.

“The purpose of the walk was to unblock me, Mike.” He looks over at him, watches as Mike pauses in his tapping to meet his eye. “I’m unblocked.” 

“You’re unblocked?”

“I’m unblocked.”

A slow grin begins to grow on his face. “Did I unblock you?”

Harvey fixes him with a look, and Mike’s lips twitch as he mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key over his shoulder.

Mike’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, looks at the screen briefly and rejects the call before putting it back in his pocket. He faces away from Harvey, looks out the window at the passing city, and resumes tapping as he grins at the window and talks softly, more to the window than anyone in particular.

“I totally unblocked him.”

Harvey watches Mike’s happy grin reflected in the window the entire way home.

+

“Dude, why do you own instruments you can’t play?”

Harvey looks up from his notepad, stares at Mike’s back as he sits at the piano, hunched over his sheet music, his forgotten beer sweating on a coaster nearby. The coffee table is littered with empty takeout containers, remnants of the dinner Donna brought them an hour and a half ago. Mike had wolfed his chicken parmesan down in record time when Donna pulled him off the piano bench and forced the container on him, and he’d looked up at her, seeking her approval to return to work when it was finished.

It wasn’t charming in the least.

“Don’t call me dude. And what kind of an idiot would own instruments he can’t play?”

Mike looks over his shoulder at him. “I’ve never seen you pick any of them up.”

Harvey sets his notepad on the end table next to him, stands. “Haven’t you seen any of my performances?”

“Just the acoustic set. _Specter and Tanner, Live at the Rialto._ Just you and a mic and Tanner and a guitar.”

Harvey walks over to the piano slowly, stops behind Mike, reaches an arm out on either side as he leans forward. He rests his hands on the piano keys, cages Mike in, brings his mouth up to rest next to Mike’s ear. He begins to play, a smooth, smoky song his father wrote years ago, and starts to sing softly in Mike’s ear. Mike leans back against him, lets his hands fall into his lap.

When Harvey finishes the song he leaves his hands where they are, says, “I can play four instruments. Do you want to know which ones? Or would you like a demonstration instead?”

Mike turns his head, looks up at him, then surges up to kiss him. It’s a bit on the firm side, and he pulls back after just a few moments. When Harvey doesn’t respond immediately he licks his lips, says nervously, “Sorry. Sorry. I just got carried away. It won’t hap-”

Harvey pulls his hands away from the keys and wraps them around Mike’s face, bringing his lips up to Harvey’s.

Harvey kisses Mike with firm certainty, swallows his little whines and moans happily, smiles into his mouth. He straddles the piano bench, slides up against Mike’s side, wraps an arm around him. Mike’s body leans and twists into him, falls into the kiss, and Harvey runs a hand through his hair, cradles the back of his head.

Eventually Harvey pulls away, nudges Mike’s nose with his own, watches as Mike muzzily tries to come back to himself.

“So, it’s done then?”

Mike blinks. “What?”

“Song number five. It’s finished?”

“Yeah, it’s...yeah. _Someone New_ is finished.”

Harvey grins as Mike fumbles with the sheet music in front of him.

“Need a little help?”

He depresses the first key slowly, then the second. Lets the sound reverberate in the condo. Leans into Mike as he depresses the third key, watches as Mike’s eyelashes flutter.

“Fuck.”

+

They fall easily into a routine. Donna brings them meals at least once a day, nods approvingly as she charts their progress, picks up after them when she thinks Harvey isn’t looking. Mike stops going home at night, falls into Harvey’s bed when he’s so tired he can’t even sit up straight at the piano anymore, and Harvey never comments on it. Mike’s things are starting to become mixed in with his, their clothes in the same hamper, their toothbrushes lying on top of one another in the top left hand drawer of the vanity.

Mike gets a phone call at least once a day that he rejects, and makes another that he smiles almost all the way through. After the first two days he starts leaving his phone on speaker, and Harvey can hear Grammy’s snarky admonishments and warm concern through the phone. Harvey takes over the conversation with her more than once when Mike focuses in on his composing and forgets he’s even in the middle of a conversation, much less one with his grandmother. She’s tolerant, amused by it, and Harvey finds himself charmed by her.

Mike and Harvey have sex for the first time when Mike initiates it, climbing in his lap to kiss him when he finishes composing the music for the sixth song. Mike grinds down into him, makes it clear what he wants, and Harvey wastes little time stripping him down. Harvey sings into his skin, nips at his neck, and Mike gasps, bumps his head against Harvey’s, rolls his hips. They don’t manage to make it to the bed, not that time, but it’s just as good in his chair, when Mike sinks down on him, takes him in all the way, throws back his head.

They do make it to the bed the second time. And the third.

+

They’re lying in bed, naked, when Mike starts humming a song Harvey doesn’t know.

“What song is that?”

Harvey is propped up against the headboard, Mike sprawled out sideways, his head pillowed on Harvey’s stomach. Mike’s eyes are closed and he leans into Harvey’s hand when he threads it through Mike’s hair, scratches his scalp gently. His other hand glides over Mike’s stomach in soft circles.

Mike stops humming long enough to make a non-committal sound and say, “Dunno. Something new.”

The humming is a little louder now, more sure as Mike makes the song more complex.

He’s always doing things like this: creating music on a whim. He sings nonsense songs while he’s in the shower, or picking his clothes up off the floor, or getting a glass of water. Like they’re afterthoughts, pieces of himself that just slip out because his brain is too full of these little songs and he can’t hold them in any longer. He’s a goddamn prodigy.

“Where does the music come from?”

His eyes flutter open briefly and he pauses before he says, “I don’t know. I hear it everywhere. I just...play what I hear.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence and Harvey thinks Mike’s fallen asleep when he asks, “Where do the lyrics come from?” 

“A word. A thought. An idea. A story.”

Mike hums in acknowledgment, says, his voice beginning to slur, “Wish I could write the way you do. Can’t write at all.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“There’s a reason all the songs I wrote before you were instrumentals. ‘S not ‘cause I can’t sing.”

Harvey pulls him up the bed and Mike goes, pliant and loose, snuggling into him.

“Your voice is pretty. Your words are pretty too. You’re pretty.”

Harvey snorts softly. “Go to sleep, Mike.”

+

Harvey wakes up in the early hours of the morning to find Mike gone from the bed, the side he’s come to claim as his own cool to the touch. He walks out of the room in his boxer briefs, squints, and finds Mike sitting at the piano, naked, scribbling something on the paper in front of him. Harvey looks at the clock on the wall, sighs.

“Mike, we only went to sleep three and a half hours ago. Come back to bed.”

Mike’s answer is mumbled, rushed. “I’m almost done. I just...I had to finish this. We have to finish this.”

“We will.” Harvey walks over to him, smoothes a hand across his shoulder and down over his chest. “We will.”

Mike breathes in, nods, finishes filling in a half note. 

Harvey gives his neck a squeeze, drops his hand and walks away toward the bedroom.

“Harvey?”

Harvey stops, turns.

“I’m going to go visit Grammy tomorrow.”

Harvey nods. “You should. How long has it been?”

“About a week.”

He nods again. “Go.”

“It’ll take time away from our work.”

“Mike? Go.”

He starts to turn again when Mike calls out his name. He looks at him, staring at him nervously from the piano bench, and lifts an eyebrow in question.

“I want you to meet her.”

“It would be my honor.” Harvey watches at the tension leaches out of Mike’s back, as he gives Harvey a happy little ghost of a smile. “Now...get your naked ass off my piano bench and back into bed. That’s not a request.”

Harvey walks back into the bedroom and slips back into bed, pulls the covers up and turns the bedside lamp off with a sigh, closing his eyes. A minute or so later he hears the soft shuffle of bare feet on hardwood and shifts a bit, reaching over to throw back the duvet for Mike.

The next thing he feels is the duvet being pulled off him completely, and he opens his eyes to see the shadow of Mike climbing up and onto the foot of the bed, kneeling in front of Harvey. It’s a little too dark to really see Mike – Harvey invested good money in those blackout curtains – but the shape of him, the slow, sweet movement of his body as he comes closer is enough for Harvey’s legs to fall open, for him to slide his hands behind his head and watch as Mike moves closer.

Mike slides his hands under Harvey’s thighs and nudges his legs up. Harvey bends them at the knee, obligingly, and Mike leans down to nip softly at Harvey’s inner thighs, first his right then his left, shoving the cotton material of Harvey’s boxer briefs out of the way. He nudges Harvey’s growing bulge with his nose a few times then sits back to pull the underwear off. Harvey lifts his hips to help then reaches for Mike’s neck and pulls him down, spreading his legs wider as he finishes kicking his underwear off. Mike practically pulls the kiss out of him, bracing his hands on the bed under Harvey’s shoulders, sliding his cock against Harvey’s. Harvey isn’t quite there yet but Mike is, and his slick is easing the way, making the slip slide of their bodies just that much easier.

Mike is kissing like he means it, demanding and hard, and Harvey lets him, threads his hands into Mike’s hair, pulls off when he needs air. Mike’s head drops to Harvey’s shoulder as his hips speed up, panting into Harvey’s neck as his movements become erratic. Harvey lifts his hips, grabs onto Mike’s ass with one hand and the back of his head with the other, guides him down against Harvey’s body.

It’s possible that this is a mistake. That this is too much, too soon, fueled by the close quarters and intense schedule. It’s possible this will come back to bite them in the ass later. But Mike was different from the beginning, and it feels different now. Not something to regret, never something to regret. Something close to right, something messy and a little too perfect for its own good. A lightning bolt.

Harvey can feel it growing, building, and finally it hits him, quick and intense. When he feels himself coming down from it, he realizes Mike’s hips are still moving erratically, his breath is still coming out in increasingly more ragged pants, and Harvey squeezes Mike’s ass, urges him on.

“Come on. Come on, Mike. Come on.”

Mike finally grips the sheets hard and his body stutters and stills on top of Harvey, breathing hard into Harvey’s neck. 

Harvey tugs gently on Mike’s hair, and Mike lifts his head so Harvey can look him in the eye. Harvey kisses him and Mike smiles at him, happy and calm, then rolls his hips against Harvey’s. Harvey hisses and slaps Mike on the ass and Mike laughs as he rolls off of Harvey to lie on his back. 

Brat.

+

Grammy’s nursing home is nice, Harvey guesses. If you have to go somewhere to be taken care of, at least the staff seem kind and dependable, and the place is clean. It isn’t very inspiring, as full as it is with taupe walls and inoffensive artwork in various shades of pastel, but maybe that’s just the way it is in nursing homes. Nursing Home chic.

He can’t help but feel Grammy deserves better than this.

Harvey brings flowers. Daffodils. They’re out of season, so they were incredibly expensive, but the cost will be more than worth it when he sees the light in her eye. _Daffodil_ was one of his father’s earliest hits.

And one of her favorite songs. 

“Grammy, this is Harvey. Harvey...my grandmother, Edith Ross.”

“It’s not as if we’re strangers, Michael.”

Grammy’s room seems a little more like her – there are pictures of Mike everywhere, at various ages, and the sterile art Harvey noticed in the rooms they passed is nowhere to be seen. He imagines if he asks, he’ll find out she tore it down herself the first day and hid it in the closet. Or burned it with a contraband lighter.

He smiles, steps forward and holds out the flowers. “A pleasure to meet you in person.”

She takes them, looks up at him, a knowing look in her eyes. “Are you trying to charm me, young man?”

“Maybe a little. Is it working?”

She hums. “Daffodils.”

He nods. “A token of appreciation.”

“Oh?”

“For teaching your grandson to play the piano. And for keeping my father in your good thoughts.”

She smiles. “He was a hell of a saxophonist.”

“He was.”

“A hell of a songwriter too.”

“He was.” 

“So.” She tilts her head. “How long have you been sleeping with my grandson?”

“Grammy! You can’t ask him that!”

“Michael, one of the virtues of growing old is the license to ask anyone whatever the hell I want. Now sit down and take a deep breath, or you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

Harvey sits down, crosses his legs, watches Mike with undisguised amusement as he drops down into a chair identical to Harvey’s, as he starts rubbing his forehead. His phone buzzes and he slips it out of his pocket, rejects the call, and slides the phone back into his pocket with only a brief glance at the screen.

“I would say you should be careful or I’ll put you in a home, but I clearly went through with that threat already. I need a new way to intimidate you into acting like a normal grandmother. You’re getting too comfortable.”

“I’m eighty-two years old. There isn’t a single part of me that’s comfortable right now. The right side of my ass _is_ numb, however. I suppose that’s something.”

His father would’ve definitely liked her. Would’ve said she had moxie. Probably would’ve written a song about her. Something clever, with spark. 

“Now, Harvey, I want you to remember something. Screwing my grandson is fine, screwing him over is not.”

“Oh my god.”

Harvey smiles. “Understood.”

“We need to have your meds checked.”

“My meds are fine.”

“Is that why you’ve been palming some of them?” She looks away, and he says, “Yeah, don’t think I don’t know.”

Harvey’s phone rings and he pulls it out of his pocket, stands and excuses himself when he sees Donna’s name displayed.

“The nurses are busybodies.”

“That’s what I pay them for. They’re actively interested in keeping you alive. I like that about them.”

He smiles to himself and walks out into the hallway and away from Grammy’s room, picks up the call. “Donna.”

“You’re welcome.”

Harvey blinks. “I’m sure I’m going to regret asking this, but what should I be thanking you for?”

“Jessica loves the first three songs, and she’s eager to hear more. I think I may have actually seen a smile on her face that bordered on genuine.”

“Donna-”

“Fine, you’re right, it was probably a hallucination. I had a suspect breakfast burrito this morning. But she loved the songs. And she’s intrigued by Mike.”

Harvey’s lips thin. “How did she hear the songs, Donna? And why does she know anything about Mike?”

“You realize you’re going to have to share him with the world when the album gets released, don’t you? You can’t keep him your precious little genius secret forever.”

“No kidding? I thought I’d just lock him in the closet when he was done writing this album. Maybe bring him out for special occasions, let him use the bathroom once in a while.”

“That would be the humane thing to do. Maybe give him a little food and water when you think of it? I mean, you don’t want him dying back there, the smell would be awful. And then you could always bring him out again to write the next album.”

“You know what they say, waste not want not.”

Donna pauses, says, “She heard his talent on the tape. She’s interested. Don’t over think this.”

He clenches his jaw, watches a nurse wheel an elderly man by. “You shouldn’t have played the tape for her. The songs aren’t ready to be heard.”

“They were ready. And she was ready to hear them.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Yes. It was. I’m your agent Harvey, something I’ve been for the last fifteen years. No one knows your process better than I do. I’m not here to screw you over. I’m here to do the glad-handing, I’m here to work out your contracts, I’m here to make sure your publicist knows exactly what to do to make sure your face is out there. I do all this so you can write your music and do what you love, and as the last fifteen years can attest, I’m _very_ good at my job.

“What you’re doing with Mike...she’s very impressed, even if she didn’t say it in so many words. The second I heard the first song, I knew you were going to hit it out of the park. Your producer needed to know that too. Now she does. And she’s reminded why she took a chance on a twenty year old kid with a good pedigree and absolutely zero experience. Your work speaks for itself. The songs were ready.”

Harvey edges back toward Grammy’s room, peeks around the corner to see them smiling at each other, laughing together.

“I’m choosing to take your silence as an acknowledgment of just how right I am, and how wrong you are.”

He pulls himself out of the doorway, leans against the hallway wall, rolls his eyes.

“So...did I happen to mention I saw Tanner today? Or did I forget that?”

“I don’t care, Donna.”

She hums. “Sure, you don’t. And you don’t care that the sales numbers are in for the second week for his solo album and they’re abysmal. The label’s incredibly disappointed. Jessica’s practically dancing at Hardman’s screw up. Have you heard the album?”

“Haven’t had the displeasure, no.”

Donna’s voice is hushed, but gleeful. “Except for one song, it’s a piece of crap. The reviewers are ripping Tanner apart.”

If Harvey were a better, kinder man, he wouldn’t be getting so much joy out of Tanner’s failure.

But he’s not a better man.

“I only wish you could’ve seen his face when I passed him in the hall earlier. Oh, wait. You can. I took a picture. Check your phone.”

Harvey looks down at his phone, at the frustrated, vaguely panicked, very angry face of Travis Tanner, and grins.

He pulls his phone back up to his ear just as Donna says, “I want to hear the rest of your finished songs. I’m coming by with lunch, and a selection of Tanner’s crappiest reviews. I’m thinking of having them bound into a book for a lifetime of enjoyment.”

“What time?”

“Wait...where are you?”

“Not at home.”

Harvey can practically hear her eye roll through the phone. “You know I’ll find out.”

“We’ll be home by one.”

“Harvey-”

“Goodbye, Donna.”

Harvey hangs up before she can say anything else, slides the phone into his pocket after setting it to silent. He walks back into Grammy’s room but pauses in the doorway when he hears their conversation.

“Who are you avoiding?”

Mike rubs his hand over his head, says, “I don’t know what you’re-”

“Michael, please. I’m old, not stupid. You’ve ignored a call from the same person twice since you’ve been here.”

“That’s because I’m here with you.”

The words sound fake to Harvey, forced, something Grammy clearly agrees with.

“Try again.”

He sighs, resigned, pulls the phone out of his pocket to hold it, roll it over in his hands. “Trevor. He wanted me to do...something...for him, and I...didn’t show up. And I’m...” He exhales loudly, in a rush. “...not planning to show up for him ever again. Not for that, and...maybe not for anything else either.”

These are clearly difficult words for Mike to say, something Harvey can appreciate even if he’s disgusted by what Trevor’s done to Mike, what he would’ve done if Harvey hadn’t stepped in with a better offer. It’s never easy to walk away from someone, to say goodbye. And Mike is just the type to latch onto people for life.

“Good.”

Mike looks up, startled.

“That kid has been dragging you down your entire life. I’ve wondered how long it would take you to finally see sense.” Grammy looks up from him then, looks directly at Harvey. She gives him a quick, knowing look, then looks back at Mike and says, “Congratulations on growing a set.”

Oh yes, his father would’ve definitely loved her.

“Tell me how you really feel.”

Grammy reaches forward, clasps the hand holding the phone firmly, gives it a squeeze. Mike looks up at her, swallows.

“I’m proud of you.” He smiles at her, and she brings a hand up to his cheek. “And grateful I never had to bail you out of jail.”

Mike sits back. “And there goes the moment.”

“ _You_ should be grateful you never went to jail. Your features are too soft. Someone would’ve made you their bitch in no time.”

Harvey bites back a laugh, comes walking back into the room. She deserves better than this place, better than this pastel hued, overly medicated, sanitized for your protection version of purgatory. Even if Mike can’t see it, Harvey can: the reason she’s palming her meds is so she doesn’t become one of the soul-tired already walking the halls. Anything to raise a little hell, anything to remind herself she’s still here.

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but we should get going.”

Mike stands, leans in and kisses her on the cheek. “I’d tell you not to do anything I wouldn’t do, but we both know that’s pointless.”

She accepts the kiss, hums thoughtfully in response.

Mike grips the arms of her chair, leans his forehead against hers, closes his eyes. She leans into him, rests her hand on his upper arm.

“Please do what they say. I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”

Her hand comes up, pats him on the cheek.

+

Donna drops by later, this time with Thai. She sits Mike down with a plate of chicken satay and curry, and he smiles at her before he digs in. She puts another plate down for Harvey and sits down, amused, when Mike says his thanks right before stuffing his mouth full again.

“Don’t you have any other clients?”

She sits down. “Of course I do. But you’re my favorite.”

“You mean your greatest source of income.”

She stares at him. “Right. Exactly. My favorite.”

“I don’t think that’s actually how one defines ‘favorite’.”

She snorts. “What agent have you been talking to?”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mike watching them with amusement, his fork paused in the air above his plate. Donna looks over at him and lifts her eyebrow, looks pointedly down at his plate, and he shrugs, begins eating again. It only takes a few more mouthfuls before Mike is pushing back from the table with a thanks to Donna, heading for his stack of sheet music and Harvey’s piano.

Donna watches him go, watches him move around the room. Keeps watching, looking for something, Harvey guesses, in the way he moves, in his mannerisms, in his habits.

“I suppose it’s a little late for me to tell you to be careful, isn’t it?”

She looks back at Harvey, calmly.

He knows what she’s getting at. And maybe he should deny it, but if he did she’d see through it anyway, so there’s little to no point to it. Donna is Donna, and he loves her for it, even on the days when it frustrates the hell out of him.

“But he’s not going anywhere, is he? This one’s permanent.” She nods to herself. “Maybe that’s why I never liked Tanner much. I always had a feeling he would leave you in the end. Like you were just a way station on the way to something better.” She huffs softly. “What an idiot.”

She looks over at Mike again, watches as he erases something on the paper on top of the piano then drops his right hand down to play a few notes.

“Your dad would’ve really liked Mike.”

Harvey nods. “Yeah, he would’ve.”

Donna nods back, sits back in her chair, abandons her lunch for her glass of wine and the chance to watch Mike work. 

After a minute or so, she says, “You’re going to be okay.”

His eyes fix on her, and Harvey watches her as she watches Mike. There’s nothing critical in her eyes, just a relaxed, comfortable acceptance. When he was alive, Gordon used to come over for dinner regularly, and the night always seemed to end with mostly empty plates abandoned on the table, Harvey at the piano, Gordon with whichever instrument struck his fancy. And Donna, when she was there, watching them from the table with a glass of wine in her hand. She’s looking at Mike now the same way she used to look at Gordon. 

“Was I ever in danger of not being okay?”

She meets his eye. “Yes.”

+

Donna leaves a few hours later, just about the time Mike crashes on the couch, stretched out on his stomach. His t-shirt has slid up, exposing a couple inches of skin above his waistband, and his shoulders are hunched, his left hand curled in front of his mouth. He’s rumpled and warm and soft, and he looks about five years younger than he is.

Harvey sets a small trashcan on the floor, begins picking up piece after piece of crumpled paper off the floor, remnants of Mike’s work that got tossed aside. Harvey sits on the coffee table, pulls at the edges of one of the crumpled balls until the paper starts to unfurl. He flattens out the paper, smiles, amused when he sees Mike’s large, heavily penciled word **NO!** spanning the entirety of the paper, a little dog doodle on the side. He lets it fall into the trashcan, reaches down to pick up a few more crumpled balls off the floor.

He scoops a few up from in front of the couch, feels his finger catch on the metal spiral binding of a notebook. He drags it out from under the couch and picks it up, leans forward as he holds it in his hands. The cover’s corners are curled up, and there’s a large number 5 at the top with Mike’s name just underneath. The rest of the red cover is filled with doodles, aliens and rocket ships and animals and instruments and geometric things, drawings that are just expressions of Mike’s too active brain.

Harvey spares him a glance but he’s dead to the world, so Harvey opens the notebook, thumbs quickly through the pages to find it’s almost full. He flips back to the front, to the first song that Mike’s labeled _The Battle_ , and begins to run the music in his mind, tapping the side of his thigh gently to keep rhythm. It only takes a few bars before Harvey feels the words starting to form and the story starting to take shape, and he spares Mike one more glance before he stands and walks over to the piano, setting Mike’s notebook down on the rack. He begins to play, softly, stopping every so often to write a few words in, or to start over a few bars back when the words don’t quite fit. But before long, Mike’s song has words, has a story.

Harvey flips the page to the next song.

+

Mike is propped up against the arm of the couch, quietly strumming his guitar. He moves from one song to another easily, the transitions fluid, almost practiced. They probably are. This is probably what Mike normally does at night. Harvey can see him sitting out on his fire escape on a warm night, playing his guitar, harmonizing with the street and city sounds below him.

Harvey doesn’t recognize most of the songs, even when Mike starts to sing along softly. Harvey’s making them lunch – BLTs – and he’s slicing a tomato when he laughingly asks, “Aren’t you going to play anything that reached the top twenty in the last fifty years?”

Mike just snorts, shakes his head, switches to another song Harvey doesn’t know.

Harvey pauses, knife in the air. He’s just been _dismissed._ And he suddenly realizes why. It’s astounding.

“You don’t like pop music.”

“It’s repetitive, it’s overly sweet. It’s canned. Prepackaged. It’s empty.”

“You’re an elitist.”

Mike turns, gives him an incredulous look from over the back of the sofa. 

“You are.” He shakes his head, picks the knife back up. “Vampire Weekend and Arcade Fire didn’t invent meaningful music.”

“Dude, are you calling me a hipster?”

“The Beach Boys, the Temptations, the Supremes, the Beatles. Anything that came out of Motown. Just because something is enjoyed by the masses, that doesn’t make it devoid of value. And don’t call me dude.”

“You’re telling me _I’m Too Sexy_ is meaningful to you?”

“Don’t be deliberately stupid.” 

Harvey finishes the sandwiches, brings them over to the living room and sets them down on the coffee table. He sits down next to them, on the table, and takes the guitar from Mike’s hands. He looks down, adjusts the fingers of his left hand, and begins to play.

He pulls a Mike and creates a makeshift medley. He’s just in the middle of singing _I Want to Hold Your Hand_ when Mike surges forward and kisses him soundly. Harvey’s hands pause on the guitar, and he clutches the neck as he kisses Mike back.

“Okay. You made your point.”

+

It’s amazing how easy it all is, how natural. How stupidly _normal_.

Harvey usually wakes up first, starts breakfast and brings the paper in. Mike wakes up roughly twenty to thirty minutes later and shuffles into the kitchen in his boxers. He rubs at his eyes and gives Harvey a cheerful smile before slipping onto a stool and watching him work.

Mike will clean up the dishes while Harvey puts things away, and then Harvey will retreat to his chair with his legal pad and a cup of coffee while Mike replays what he was working on before they went to bed in the early hours of the morning. Eventually Mike will put on some real clothes before Donna gets there with their lunch, and then he’ll shovel his food down so he can get back to the piano, can get back to turning Harvey’s words into music.

(Mike’s only been back to his apartment once, and it was to grab more clothes and throw out the milk in his fridge that had gone bad, to water a plant and pick up his mail. Harvey hasn’t lived with anyone since he left his father’s house, and that’s by design – he values his space, his privacy. And yet Mike has carved himself a less than small spot there, as if it’s his rightful place, as if he belongs. Harvey hasn’t lifted a finger once to stop him.)

They’ll work through the afternoon, stopping when Mike’s stomach growls and he wrinkles his nose at Harvey in a vaguely adorable kind of embarrassment. Harvey will shake his head and order something or make something and Mike will give him this little smile and Harvey will remind himself that it isn’t a good idea to start stripping Mike down when a delivery boy will be there in roughly thirty-five minutes. On the days when there’s no eminent delivery boy, all bets are off.

Mike cranks out the music for each song like they barely cost him any effort at all, spending so much time on the piano bench there are days Harvey practically has to pry him off in order to nudge him into getting at least a few hours of sleep in Harvey’s incredibly expensive - and much more comfortable - bed. When Mike does manage to step away from the piano bench during the day, Harvey slips over and reads the little notes he scrawls to himself in the margin with amusement - _horn section? Horn section!!!_ \- and something close to quiet admiration - _use Gordon’s voice sampled from Lonely Boy for background vocal? would Harvey hate it?_.

Not for the first time, Harvey wonders what Mike could have accomplished on his own, had he not been waylaid by a selfish best friend, by his own desire to do anything to take care of his one living relative, something Harvey won’t even begin to blame him for. How many awards would he have now? How many people would be clamoring for his attention, his time? Would they have ever met in a way so unscripted? In all likelihood, they would’ve been introduced at some sort of industry event, where they would’ve exchanged pleasantries and little else. They both would’ve meant them, but they also both would’ve gone home wondering if the other person had. It all would’ve been incredibly shallow, unexceptional. 

And unacceptable.

Harvey finishes the lyrics for the tenth song and, for good measure, begins working on another song. And when he finishes that one, on another. (Knowing Jessica as he does, it can’t hurt to have a few songs in the tank.) 

Mike sings while he does mundane, everyday things and smiles almost constantly. He splays out his arms and legs like a starfish when he sleeps, uses Harvey as his personal pillow. He sings at the top of his voice in the shower and sometimes walks around the condo naked afterward (once catching an amused Donna by surprise). He reaches over to steal food from Harvey’s plate, to drink from his beer at least once a day. 

Harvey’s never been so happy.

Which is, of course, when Trevor decides to show up.

+

Harvey and Mike agree to split up for the morning so Harvey can run some errands, and so Mike can spend a few hours with Grammy. They’re a few days away from their deadline but Mike just completed the music for the ninth song the night before, and Harvey thinks a few hours away from the condo won’t hurt them.

Ray is just pulling up to a stop in front of his building when Harvey sees Mike standing there, in quiet, close conversation with another man. The man’s hand is on Mike’s shoulder, is smiling at him, and Mike seems to laugh back, but a touch warily, his eyes fixed on the man in front of him.

This must be Trevor, then.

Harvey steps out of the car and when Ray comes around to meet him, he asks him to grab the groceries out of the trunk. Ray looks cautiously between Mike and Trevor and Harvey and then nods, moves to the trunk of the town car without a word.

Harvey begins to walk over to them and as he approaches, hears Trevor say, “I guess I just never thought you’d be that guy.”

“Trevor-”

“You meet someone famous, get yourself a shiny new best friend, and suddenly you won’t pick up the phone when I call.”

“That’s not-”

Trevor laughs. “What’s going to happen when he’s tired of you? When he’s gotten what he needs from you?”

Mike swallows.

“That’s what I tried to warn you about, remember?” Trevor brings up his other hand, grips Mike’s other shoulder. He leans in, a smile beginning to bloom on his lips. “He’s just going to use you for your talent then spit you out. You don’t need him. You’re better than him. C’mon, he’s a hack. You can make it on your own. And I can help. I can be your manager.”

“Mike, go help Ray bring the groceries in.”

Mike looks over at him, startled. He blinks, looks back briefly at Trevor then nods guiltily at Harvey and brushes past him to walk over to Ray. Harvey looks at Trevor, slips his hands into his pockets, watches him. Trevor shifts under his gaze, his eyes flitting back behind Harvey to watch Mike walk across the sidewalk and into the building.

Harvey just smiles, eyes trained on Trevor.

“How old were you?”

“What?”

“How old were you when you realized how special he was? Mike’s known you pretty much his entire life, so you had to have been what...five? Six?”

Trevor’s mouth thins and he shifts.

“It must’ve been hard to deal with at that age. Knowing he was special, that he was meant for something greater than you were. And you’ve always been observant, haven’t you? Good at putting the pieces together. I’m curious, did you even consider helping him succeed before you started hurting his chances?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Harvey’s grin starts to form, slow and sure. “Mike didn’t come up with selling those tests on his own. He wouldn’t have willingly risked his shot at doing what he loved without outside influence. That’s something he needed to be talked into. And you were happy to help, happy to use his love for his grandmother against him. Anything to get him away from all of those talented, like minded people who appreciated him. Otherwise, he might forget about you. And you couldn’t have that.”

Harvey tilts his head, takes in the uncomfortable shift in Trevor’s posture, the way he’s trying to close himself off from the conversation. As if it’ll help.

“People don’t stick around for you. So you couldn’t have the one person who kept sticking around forget about you. It’s a good thing he had Grammy, or he would’ve been screwed right from the start.”

“You don’t know me.” Trevor laughs, short and loud. “And you only think you know Mike.”

Harvey smiles even bigger. “I know everything.”

“Really? So you know how his parents died?”

It’s a challenge, one that Harvey is more than willing to accept.

“Car accident. They were coming home late one night from a conference so they could get back in time to see Mike perform at his yearly recital, and it was raining. The roads were slick, and dark, and the driver of the other car had been drinking. Mike was eleven, and it took him years to understand that it wasn’t his fault.”

Trevor flares his nostrils, crosses his arms as he looks back toward the entrance to Harvey’s building.

“I told you...I know everything.”

Trevor shoves his hands into his pockets, hunches his shoulders in. Looks everywhere else before finally letting his eyes come to rest on Harvey’s. Defeated. 

“You love him. He’s your family. So prove it.” Harvey lifts his chin. “Stop calling. Stop interfering in his success. Let him become the person he was meant to be. And when he’s ready, he’ll call you back.”

He scoffs. “ _Right._ ”

“You have my word.”

Trevor looks down at the street and swallows, teeth clenched. He remains stubbornly quiet for a while and Harvey allows it, standing there calmly, waiting. 

He looks up, finally, stares Harvey down. But there’s no confidence behind it, no surety that this time, like all the other times before, he’s going to come out on top. Harvey has more to lose and more to give, and there’s no way Trevor can match that.

“And what if I go to a reporter? Tell them everything?”

“You could, but you won’t. Because then he’d never talk to you again, he’d pretend you never existed. And you can’t have that. He means too much to you. So you’re going to be a good boy, and keep your mouth shut and your nose clean, and you’re going to figure out a way to earn back his trust and affection. Because I think we both know that right now, you don’t deserve it.”

Trevor takes one more glance at the front doors of Harvey’s building before nodding and brushing past Harvey.

“And Trevor?”

Trevor turns, looks at him.

“Don’t ever show up at my home again without calling first. Understand?”

Trevor nods once, sharply, then turns and walks away, down the street. Harvey watches him go for a minute, watches as his back disappears through a crowd of people, then turns and walks into his building. 

As he expected, Mike is waiting for him at the elevator with Ray, and Harvey takes the bags of off Ray’s hands, thanks him. Ray nods, smiles, and exits the building after sparing Mike a smile and a wink. Mike gives him a small smile, thanks him. Mike looks over at Harvey, worries his lip. He wants to ask, Harvey can tell, but he’s holding himself back, waiting for Harvey to say something first.

The elevator dings and Harvey enters it first, presses the up button. Mike scurries in as the doors start to close, a bag in each hand. He looks over at Harvey, begins to open his mouth to say something, then stops himself. Harvey turns, looks out the back of the glass elevator toward the buildings beyond as it starts to rise.

“Harvey, I’m sorry.”

Harvey looks at him sharply. “Don’t apologize for him.”

“I brought him to your door.”

“Trevor’s responsible for what Trevor does. No one else.”

“I promised Donna I wouldn’t screw up your career with my messy personal life. And here I am, already screwing it up.”

“Don’t worry about Donna.”

“But I-”

“Mike. You aren’t responsible for what he does.” 

They stand together in silence for a minute, watching the outside shrink below them as they rise.

“I could’ve handled it.”

“I know that.” Mike’s skepticism is plain. “But you don’t have to. We’re partners, Mike. No one’s going to fuck with you without getting my fist.” The elevator comes to a halt and the doors slide open. “Got it?”

Harvey waits until Mike nods back before stepping out of the elevator. As Mike’s walking out after him, his phone rings. Harvey pauses, watches him, and Mike looks at the display.

“It’s Grammy’s nursing home.”

Harvey nods, takes the bags from Mike’s hands and walks away toward the kitchen. He starts putting the groceries away, is mostly done when Mike reappears in the kitchen, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He runs a hand through his hair, points over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m gonna get back to work.”

Harvey pulls the loaf of sourdough out of the bag and watches with narrowed eyes as Mike nods to himself, slips out of his jacket and sits down on the piano bench with a pause. Mike nods again at the piano then takes a deep breath and starts to read over Harvey’s lyrics. He starts tapping a quiet rhythm on his thigh.

His movements are distracted, almost too careful. 

“Mike? What’s wrong? Is it Grammy?”

Mike looks over at him, startled. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because the nursing home just called, and you’re not acting like yourself.”

Mike looks at Harvey a moment, sighs. “It’s Trevor. That’s all.”

Harvey watches him carefully then nods and Mike turns away, back toward the keys.

Harvey makes them sandwiches, cuts Mike’s in half on the diagonal, his in half down the center. He adds a pickle to both plates, potato chips to Mike’s, grabs a tall glass of ice water. He sets the plate and the glass of water down to the right of Mike, waits for an acknowledgment that comes in the form of a halfhearted glance at the food and a quick smile before he’s back to staring at the lyrics, back to tapping his thigh with his fingers.

Harvey sits down in his chair, begins eating his sandwich slowly, watches Mike. He glances at the food once, takes a couple small bites, but otherwise ignores it in favor of plunking out a few notes on the piano, only to shake his head and try something else. Harvey lets it continue for about thirty minutes before he decides they’ve both had enough.

“Alright Mike, what’s wrong?”

Mike stops, looks over his shoulder. He looks tired. “I told you, it’s just...Trevor.”

“Nope, try again.”

“How am I supposed to try again when that’s the answer?”

“He’s not the reason you’re acting like this. It’s something else.” Harvey stands, walks over to the piano and stops right next to Mike. He looks down at him and Mike looks up. “Spit it out.”

Suddenly Mike deflates, his shoulders drooping, and he sways a little like he wants to lean into Harvey’s hip, bury his face against his leg. He doesn’t.

“They had to take Grammy to the hospital.”

“What?”

Mike rubs his face with his hands. “I guess she started having trouble breathing after I left, and it just kept getting worse so they took her to the hospital. They had to intubate her.”

“Go.”

“Harvey, we only have a couple days left to finish this song and it’s nowhere near done. I haven’t even-”

“ _Go_.”

“But I-”

“Your grandmother’s in the hospital, Mike. Go. _Now_. I’ll take care of the album.” Mike stands and Harvey grabs his jacket off the back of the sofa, pushes it into his hands. “I’ll call Ray, get him back here. He should be waiting by the time you get downstairs.”

“What are you going to do about the last song?”

“Worry about Grammy. You let me worry about the album.”

Harvey puts his hand in the middle of Mike’s shoulder blades and directs him toward the elevator. Mike allows himself to be pushed, turning as he steps into the elevator, face pinched with worry. “Harvey, seriously...what are you going to do?”

Harvey sighs. “I’m going to go see Jessica.”

+

Harvey steps out of the cab in front of the Pearson Hardman building, buttons up his coat.

There’s a reason he avoids coming here if he can, something that becomes immediately clear the moment he steps into the lobby and watches assorted low level employees pretend they aren’t whispering to each other about him behind their hands. 

The amount of time Harvey spends in this building is in direct relation to the amount of time it takes him to sign paperwork and record his albums. No more. And if he can swing less, he does.

But today’s a special circumstance.

Harvey nods at one of the security guards and they let him through without so much as a second glance, which means Jessica must’ve already let them know he was on his way. When he steps into the elevator, he’s followed by a short, twenty-something blonde woman who clutches a set of files to her chest and softly asks him to press the button for floor fifteen, the same floor Harvey’s headed to.

The ride up is silent and Harvey glances over at her to see her staring resolutely forward, rigid and clenched tight. When the doors finally ding she steps out first and then quickly spins, sucks in a breath, and says, “Mr. Specter, your song, _I Needed You_ , is the most beautiful, perfect song I’ve ever heard. I promised myself if I ever met you, I would tell you that. So thank you. Thank you for writing it.”

She begins to walk away and Harvey says, “I think you’re mistaken. That song’s from Travis Tanner’s new solo album.”

She appears back in front of the elevator, her knuckles white from gripping onto the folders in her arms so tightly. She says, vehemently, “Anyone with half a brain can tell that Tanner didn’t write that song.”

“What’s your name?”

“Emily.” She swallows, lifts her chin. “Emily Voss.”

“Thank you, Emily.”

She nods once, sharply, then scurries away.

Harvey steps out of the elevator to watch her walk away, watches until she turns the corner, files resolutely clutched to her chest, back ramrod straight.

“Scaring the interns again?”

Harvey turns, smiles, appraises her. “You look fierce. How many men have you eviscerated today?”

She presses the up button for the elevator, gives him a knowing smile and says, “Flattery. Now I know you want something.”

When the elevator doors open she slides in, Harvey following close behind. She takes him up to the roof, to the deck Pearson Hardman uses for parties. Some of the upper level employees have been known to use it to catch a minute during the work day, but getting on this late in the year, with the chill in the air really starting to set in, it’s deserted. 

“I thought you might prefer to have this conversation away from the eyes of the office pool.”

She’s right. But then, there’s a reason Jessica is where she is.

She walks to the railing, spins. “What are you doing here, Harvey?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see your highest grossing artist.”

She smiles. “I’ll be plenty happy to see you when you turn in the rough cut for your album in just about...oh...” She looks down at her watch then looks back up, head tilted, the beginnings of a dangerous smile curling the edges of her lips. “...two days from now. You didn’t happen to bring it with you today, did you?”

She lifts an eyebrow and Harvey looks away, ceding the victory. She knows he doesn’t have it.

“So I’ll ask again: what are you doing here, Harvey?”

He slips his hands into his pockets, swallows a sigh, and says, “I need an extension.”

She steps toward him, her voice dangerously calm. “I think you’re forgetting I already gave you an extension. A year ago.”

“So what’s a few more days then?”

“No.”

“Jessica, I just need an extra week.”

“Why?”

“Family emergency.”

“Did something happen to Marcus?”

He pauses. “No.”

Her eyes bore into his and she blinks, slowly. “He’s only been your partner for a few weeks and he’s already causing problems? I have to tell you Harvey, if this is the way it’s going to go, I have serious reservations about him. And about your future.”

“You heard him on the songs Donna gave you.”

“He’s a good musician. So what? The city is overflowing with them. I could pick any low rent bar with an open mic night, and find _three or four_ earnest Juilliard dropouts. It’s New York.”

Jessica’s done her homework. Not that he expects anything less. He straightens. “Mike Ross is going to blow you away.”

She looks him up and down. “He better. Or soon you’re going to be more trouble than you’re worth.”

She gives him one final look then starts to walk away. She stops at the door, turns, and says with a smile, “I’ll see you in my office at nine am, Thursday. Don’t be late. You know I hate tardiness.”

Harvey waits until she leaves the deck then turns, walks over to the railing, clenches it tight in both hands, bows his head.

_Shit._

+

“Heya, Harv.” Harvey looks up and into the gleeful eyes of Travis Tanner, standing in front of the open doors of the elevator. He slides in next to Harvey, leans into him far more closely than is strictly necessary, and pushes the already lit up button for the lobby. “I thought that was you I saw getting on the elevator earlier.”

Harvey should have been expecting this, what with the way his day is going, but he’s been way too focused on other things and other people these last few days to even throw half a thought Tanner’s way.

Still, he should’ve seen this coming. Tanner knows Harvey’s deadline. Of course he’d be lurking about, just waiting for his opportunity.

“So your meeting with Jessica didn’t go well, huh?” He winces in mock sympathy and Harvey suppresses his knee jerk eye roll, watches the numbers fall. “Too bad, sport. But I guess even Jessica has limits to her favoritism.”

A few days ago, when the condo was dark and quiet and still and Harvey was flush with satisfaction over finishing another song, Mike quietly asked him how Tanner could have done what he did. How did he manage to steal Harvey’s song out from under him? And how could Tanner live with himself? Harvey told him he’d been blindsided, that he didn’t really know.

That wasn’t entirely true.

Tanner’s resentment had been growing steadily for years, a result of Harvey being placed in the forefront by Jessica, by the media, by the fans. The Art Garfunkel to Harvey’s Paul Simon. Harvey saw snippets here and there, off comments and sharp glances, things he suspected might grow into something more. But they never developed into anything. Mostly he just figured it was all smoke. Harvey was the member of the partnership who had the most power, he was the one they asked for. Tanner needed him.

And then his father died and Tanner stole his song. He capitalized on the worst moment of Harvey’s life. And Harvey couldn’t even bring himself to care.

It wasn’t until after the dust of his grief had begun to settle that he realized just how angry he really was at Tanner. 

The media stuck their claws in when Tanner was a no show at Gordon’s funeral, and they practically roared with glee when Tanner announced, a respectful five days later, that he was launching his solo career, backed by a beaming Daniel Hardman, co-owner of the label. Tanner’s time in a duo was finished. Harvey got calls from every major media outlet and a lot of the minor ones wanting his reaction, but Donna deflected them all like the pro she is, her entire vocabulary for months comprised only of the words “no” and “comment”, and eventually the media moved on to other stories. 

Harvey tried to write, but nothing much came of it, and Jessica, merciful for perhaps the only time in Harvey’s acquaintance, gave him a one year extension to, quote, “get his shit straightened out”. End quote.

He doesn’t blame her for refusing to budge on an extension she’d already given him. He’d expected as much, really. But he’d had to try, expected results aside.

He’d hoped Tanner would be MIA, though. 

No such luck, it seems. And yet, when Harvey woke up this morning, Mike draped over him like a human octopus, Harvey thought luck was something he had in abundance.

Things change quick in a matter of hours.

“Congratulations on your album. I heard you debuted in the top ten.”

Tanner practically preens as he says, “Eighth.”

Harvey nods slowly, glances over at him. “That’s right, eighth.” He pauses, watches the numbers change. “Such a pity it fell completely off the charts by the next week.”

He tenses. “Album sales are down across the industry.”

“That’s true, what with illegal downloading and so many record stores going under. Still, it must have been...frustrating for you. At the top one week, totally irrelevant the next. Barely even _scratching_ the top 200 on iTunes.”

Tanner crosses his arms over his chest, laughs. It’s hollow, mocking. “Beats sitting around my condo erasing every note I write, counting down the days until my album is due, knowing all along I’ll have nothing to give Jessica.”

Harvey just smiles.

“I heard you’re going it alone this time too. That’s brave for a guy who doesn’t write his own music. I didn’t think you had it in you, Harv.” He laughs again, brighter. “Or maybe it’s not bravery. Maybe it’s desperation. It seems no one in the industry wanted to work with you. Tell me the truth, how many people rejected you?”

The elevator comes to a stop, and dings. The doors begin to slide open. Harvey walks out and through the lobby, smile still on his face, hears Tanner striding along behind him. He pushes through the revolving door, looks out across the plaza to see Ray standing at the back door of the town car, waiting for him. Harvey pauses, lets Tanner come around to stop in front of him, so smug and sure he’s practically brimming over.

Harvey slips his sunglasses on, says, “Well, what can I say, Tanner? We aren’t all capable of making four minute songs feel like they last an eternity. Isn’t that what Barker wrote in Rolling Stone?”

“At least I’m in the conversation. No one’s talking about you at all.” Tanner edges in close. “When you come back in two days, empty handed...I’m really, really going to enjoy watching you do the walk of shame.” His grin grows. “How does it feel to know your career is just a few steps away from being over?”

He walks away, back through the revolving door.

Harvey keeps his eyes straight ahead.

He’s not losing to Tanner.

+

Finding Grammy’s room is easy enough with the help of a wink and a smile at the flustered receptionist, and when he makes his way down the corridor, toward room 1132, Harvey’s a little surprised to see Donna standing outside the room, furiously typing away on her Blackberry.

“ _Donna_.”

She keeps her eyes focused on the screen in her hands. “He’s my client, Harvey. I take good care of my clients.”

He lifts an eyebrow, and she looks up, mimics him, unimpressed.

“Or do you think you’re the only one allowed to care for him?”

He knew Mike had wormed his way into Donna’s very exclusive affections by virtue of his talent and sheer eagerness, and that would mean she would fight for him and his best interests, but he hadn’t expected that to translate to standing outside of Grammy’s hospital room in the middle of the work day, not when Mike had only been in her life for a few weeks.

Sometimes Donna surprises him.

Judging by the sudden uptick of her mouth, she knows that.

“Harvey! Hey...how did it go?”

Mike looks eager and worried and worn around the edges, and he closes the door behind him almost the entire way, but not quite. Harvey can hear the quiet, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor coming through the crack in the door.

“What did she say? Did she give us more time? Because I was thinking and, I know you’re probably going to shut me down and...and you’ll think this is a stupid idea, but what if we did a cover?”

Harvey opens his mouth and Mike cuts him off.

“No, no...hear me out, okay? Not just any cover, I think we should do one of your dad’s songs. His music just means so much to both of us and...and I feel like he would’ve loved that. I feel like there’s no one else in the world he would have wanted to perform his music more than you. And it would be something surprising. You’ve never covered one of his songs on your albums before.”

Harvey’s heart thumps behind his ribcage, and _Jesus._ Where did he come from? 

“You hate it.”

“No, I don’t.”

Mike nods once, firmly, and smiles quietly, almost to himself. 

“But you interrupted me before I could tell you what she said.”

He perks up. “Did she give us more time?”

Harvey smiles at the hopeful expression. “You’re the one who said I had a way with words.”

Mike’s smile is gigantic and so very relieved, and it’s as if some measure of tension has just drained out of him. “Awesome. That means I’ll have time to finish the last song.”

“Ray’s waiting for you outside. Take Donna, go get some dinner.” Mike looks over his shoulder uncertainly, back at the mostly closed door to Grammy’s room. “Go. I’ll sit with her.”

Mike steps forward, into his space. Harvey lets him.

“Can I bring you back something?”

“Sure. You pick.”

“Okay.”

Mike leans forward, kisses him. It’s quick but affectionate, and Mike looks at him afterward, expecting, probably, to be reprimanded for kissing Harvey in public. Harvey just kisses him back, then nods down the hall. Mike looks to Donna and Donna tells him to go ahead, that she’ll meet him at the car.

When he’s turned the corner, Donna looks at him and says, “She didn’t give you more time.”

“No.”

“You lied to him.”

“Yes.”

“You have thirty-seven hours.” She crosses her arms, tilts her head. For once, she looks worried. Harvey must be imagining things. “What are you going to do?”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” He slips his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to write a song.”

+

The condo is dark when he gets home, and much quieter than he’s become accustomed to of late. Harvey drops his jacket on the back of a chair and flips on a light, illuminating their work area. It’s still strewn with pieces of yellow legal paper, Mike’s guitar leaned up against the sofa, a half empty glass of water sitting on a coaster on the coffee table, and it gives the appearance that Harvey’s living room has been turned into a still life.

Harvey walks through the condo and into his bedroom, bends over to pick up the shirt off the floor that Mike pulled off this morning and flung halfheartedly toward the laundry hamper, missing it by a mile. Harvey drops it in the hamper, changes into a Henley and jeans, walks back into the living room to take a seat at the piano. He shoves the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, leans over the keys as he looks at the paper with the lyrics for the last song. 

Harvey doesn’t know how to begin.

Lyrics are easy. They’re a story, waiting to be told. All he has to do is find the first word, and the rest of it will come eventually. It’s intuitive.

Music is the opposite. He stutters and clunks along, blindly grasping for a note here and there he hopes will work. He doesn’t have Mike’s talent for hearing music in everything, for taking one note and making a freefall of a connection, knowing his chute will open before he hits the ground.

Harvey depresses middle C, follows that with an E flat, and hates it immediately.

Just under thirty-six hours left.

+

At some point he gives it up, stops torturing himself for the time being, and goes into the spare bedroom to make rough cuts of the songs that are already finished. It’s early in the morning but Harvey couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to, part of him concerned Mike’s grandmother might take a turn for the worse, the other part of him afraid he’s going to fail, and by extension fail Mike, Donna, and Jessica.

It’s a shitty middle to be stuck in.

Recording is easy, and Harvey’s thankful for that. The songs don’t have to be perfect, since they’re rough cuts, but he takes his time anyway, recording each song over and over until they’re as close as they can get to how he wants Jessica to hear them. Mike’s voice is absent, so is his playing, but there’s nothing Harvey can do about that. 

He works methodically through each song, barely takes a break to even use the bathroom until finally all nine of them are sitting on his hard drive, complete.

He’s still a song or two short, and he knows it.

Mike’s suggestion isn’t the worst idea – in fact, it makes a whole lot of sense. Covering one of his father’s songs would be a sure way to finish the album, and it isn’t something Harvey’s done before. He never wanted Tanner’s name on any of those songs, and it just never felt like the right time. But it doesn’t feel like now is the right time either. Using one of his dad’s songs as an afterthought, tacking it on to the end of an album when he can’t come up with anything else...it just feels like it does Gordon’s music a disservice. 

No, he can’t do that.

He stands from his chair, stretches, opens the door to the windowless studio and into the main living area of his condo, blinks when he walks into the sunny room. He spares a glance at the clock on the wall. 7:46. Later than he’d thought.

He goes through the motions, starts a French press, sets the timer, puts in a bagel to toast. It feels too quiet this morning without Mike’s sleep sounds, without the piano stopping and starting as Mike plays through a song, without the sound of Mike’s voice.

Harvey was only looking for a writing partner, someone to help him finish his album. Someone to help him stick it to Tanner. Instead, he got Mike. Tanner never managed to carve a spot in Harvey’s life and his home outside of work, but Mike just seemed to slip right in and fit, right in the empty spaces Harvey already had.

He’s made Harvey’s house into a home.

The toaster pops and Harvey huffs an incredulous laugh when he sees two bagels sticking out of the toaster, not one. 

He picks up his phone, sends Mike a text asking how Grammy’s doing, if there’s been any improvement during the night. Mike texts back almost immediately.

_She’s awake! Tube just came out. Sassy as ever. Keeps telling her nurse if he wants to touch her like that, he’ll have to buy her a drink first._

Harvey smiles, types out a reply.

_**Sounds like Grammy. I’m glad she’s doing better.** _

_Thanks._

Harvey sets his phone down, takes a sip of coffee, spreads a little cream cheese on his bagel, takes a bite standing up at the counter. He stares at the other bagel, still sitting popped up in the toaster, getting colder by the moment, and calculates how much time he has left before his deadline is up. 

Just about twenty-six hours.

His phone buzzes again with another text. 

_I just don’t know what I’d do without her, y’know?_

Yeah. Harvey knows.

+

Harvey raps on the partially open door with his knuckles, peeks his head in to smile at the people within. Mike grins back, grateful and relieved, and Grammy’s smile, for someone who just went through a health scare in the last twenty four hours, is a little too knowing for her own good. Or Harvey’s, for that matter.

He walks across the room and stops next to her bed, holding the flowers in his hands out for her to take. Daffodils. “I’m glad to see you’re doing better.”

She hums a thank you. “It’s just my grandson who looks like death warmed over.”

“Grammy-”

“She’s right. You need rest.”

Mike stands abruptly. “Harvey!”

Harvey walks over to him, steps into his space. Mike takes a step back, casts a nervous glance at his grandmother, and Harvey asks, softly, a little tensely, “Do we need pretence in front of your grandmother?”

The tension in Mike eases and he says, “No, of course not.” As if to prove himself, he leans forward, gives Harvey a quick peck. “Sorry, it’s just... _everything_.”

His hands gesture vaguely in between them.

Harvey nods, lifts a hand up to curl around the back of Mike’s neck. “Ray’s waiting for you. Go home, take a shower, get some sleep.”

“Harvey-”

Mike won’t say he’s tired, that he’s ready to crash, but it’s as plain as day. It’s only his obligation, his fear that something terrible might happen to his grandmother and he won’t be there that’s keeping him going. And if Harvey can do something about that, he will.

Harvey squeezes Mike’s neck gently. “Go. Grammy and I can’t talk about you until you leave.”

“I don’t-”

“Honestly, Michael, I’m not an invalid. And you’re starting to attract flies. Listen to your boyfriend and go home and take a shower.”

“Boyfriend.” His voice is soft, laced with wonder. It occurs to Harvey that this is the first time Mike’s said the word out loud, maybe even the first time he’s thought it. Mike laughs, incredulously. “I can’t believe you’re tag teaming me.”

“Believe it.”

Mike shakes his head and Harvey nudges him toward the door, gives him a little kiss when Mike opens his mouth to protest. “Go. Sleep.”

Mike finally gives in at the door and spares them one last glance before shaking his head and leaving.

Harvey watches him go all the way down the hallway – he only looks back toward Harvey once – before Harvey closes the door. 

He pulls a deck of cards out of his pocket, holds them up in the air between two fingers, and says, “Now, I heard a story about you, and I’m wondering if it’s true, or if it’s just something born in the imagination of an adoring grandson.”

Grammy eyes the deck of cards, a twinkle in her eye. 

“Did you really win Sinatra’s hat in a game of poker?”

“Michael always did have an active imagination.”

Harvey nods, walks across the room to sit down at her bedside.

She pulls the cards out of the box, begins to shuffle expertly. “Of course, Frank sucked at five card stud.”

Harvey sits back in his chair, gives her an impressed grin.

“And I do look amazing in a fedora.”

He laughs and she deals a hand, giving him a sly little smirk as she rearranges the cards in her hand.

Harvey crosses his legs at the knee, leans into the arm of his chair as he looks down at his cards.

The room is quiet now that the machines are gone, but it leaves Harvey a little tense. He’s grateful they’re gone, for what that means for Grammy and Mike and by extension, him, but it leaves him too alone with his thoughts, and those keep circling back to an unfinished album and an ever looming deadline he doesn’t know how to meet. It leaves a sour ache in the back of his mouth, a dull pressure behind his eyes that seems to pulse with every attempt to reject the feeling, to quash it, to push it away. If Harvey were the sort of man known to panic, he would have started hours ago.

As it is, he doesn’t know what to do. The closer he gets to the deadline with no album, the further away the idea of completing the album becomes, until it feels like he couldn’t reach it if he tried.

He knows he bears the responsibility here. Even if Tanner did screw him over, he spent the large part of the last two years moping about it, when he could’ve found a partner to write with.

Of course, then his new partner wouldn’t have been Mike, and he certainly wouldn’t be here now without him.

Or maybe not. Maybe it would’ve been Mike. Maybe it was Mike all along. Maybe Harvey would’ve run into Mike when he was running through Central Park one morning, as he was playing his guitar for pocket change. Maybe Harvey would’ve walked by _Powell & Co_ one day and seen him playing the piano and stepped inside. Maybe they would’ve run into each other in a coffee shop or a movie theater lobby or a bookstore and something would’ve sparked, something that told Harvey to stop and take notice.

Maybe Harvey would’ve been twice lucky. 

“It seems I should have sent two boys home to sleep.”

Harvey looks up, discards two of his cards with a flip of the wrist, gives a shake of the head and a small smile. “One all-nighter never hurt anyone.”

She hums, deals him two cards. He picks them up, slots them into his hand. Two pair, queens and tens.

He’s had worse.

“You’ll get it done.”

He tosses his cards out face up. “Who says it’s not done?”

She flips her cards over. A full house. Figures.

She gathers up the cards, shuffles them once, twice. Her eyes focus on him a moment, sharp and searching, then she sets the cards down with something close to a resigned sigh, like she’s too old to deal with his bullshit.

“If I were the wise mother figure in a movie this is the moment I’d pull out some tired cliché with frogs or gazelles or men walking into bars that immediately inspires you and solves your problem. But I don’t have the patience for that, and I find moralistic stories to be largely bullshit. So let’s make this as easy as possible.

“What’s the problem?”

Harvey smiles to himself, tosses his cards down on the table. It would be pointless to lie to her, insulting, and Harvey’s not about to go down that road. “The album’s due in my producer’s hands in just about twenty-four hours, but as of right now the album is one song short, and I can’t finish it.”

“Why can’t you finish it?”

“I have lyrics but...no music.”

“And you can’t write music.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and Harvey’s smile is tight, resigned. “It’s always been my Achilles heel.”

“And Michael can’t focus to write. I would apologize-”

Harvey waves the sentiment off. “Unnecessary.”

“But that would be idiotic, so I won’t.”

Harvey huffs a laugh, shakes his head.

“The song isn’t the problem, you’re the problem.”

Harvey’s lips thin.

“I’m sorry, is that too difficult to hear? Well, tough. You got worse reviews on your sophomore album.”

He has to concede that. He’s a little surprised she knows that, though.

_Specter and Tanner’s latest is all style, little substance. It’s a fun album, but nothing memorable, full of slick words and turns of phrase accompanied by hollow, repetitive sounds. At times Specter’s words try to rise up, but they never quite make it above the noise. Plenty of artists only had one brilliant album in them, and it seems Specter and Tanner are just another to add to the list. I hope you enjoyed your fifteen minutes, gentlemen, because they’re almost up._

Multi-platinum, five albums since, all hit number one. Eat me, David Brewster.

“So you have a problem. So what? Creatives run into problems all the time. Fix it.”

“I’ve tried.”

She scoffs. “No you haven’t. You’ve run at it the same way you always have. As of this moment, you’re the very definition of insanity. Try. Another. Way. It would be a hell of a waste if you failed.”

Harvey sits back in the chair, stares at her with his fist in front of his mouth. She calmly picks up the cards, begins to shuffle them, deals another hand. 

“You’ll figure it out. The good ones always do. Now,” She nods toward Harvey’s dealt hand, still sitting on the table between them. “Ante up.”

+

Mike shows up later and takes over with a smile, kissing Harvey when he stands. He looks rested, happier, more put together than he did a few hours ago when Harvey sent him through the door. A shower and a few hours of sleep have done him a world of good, and Harvey smiles when Mike sets down a plastic takeaway bag from _Antonelli’s_.

They indulge in a late lunch, and then Harvey bids them both goodbye before he grabs a cab home.

He drops his keys into the metal dish just inside the front door, slips his coat off and walks across the condo and into his bedroom. In the entrance to his closet he pauses, a little taken aback when he sees a pair of jeans and a shirt, a pair of socks and a set of boxer briefs turned inside out and lying on the floor. He stoops, picks them up, holds the clothing in his hands.

He’d thought Mike would’ve gone home, taken a shower in his own place, fallen into his own bed. But he fell into Harvey’s instead. Used his shower, probably borrowed a pair of socks, maybe underwear.

Harvey drops the clothes into the hamper.

He pushes his sleeves up as he walks into the living room, surveys the room. He picks up the half full water glass, takes it to the kitchen. He puts Mike’s guitar away in its case, slides it under the coffee table. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, how he’s going to fix this, but it feels good to do something with his hands rather than nothing, so he stacks the sheets of yellow legal paper with Mike’s doodles and notes and surprisingly legible handwriting on an end table together.

He sits at the piano, starts to play as he feels the day begin to slip further and further away from him. 

On the coffee table his phone buzzes and he stops playing, stands to pick it up.

_Grammy says to Ante Up._

His phone buzzes again.

_What does that mean?_

Harvey smiles.

_**Nothing.** _

_...you’re never going to tell me what that means, are you?_

_**Nope.** _

For a minute or two there’s nothing, and then his phone buzzes again.

_...fine._

Harvey sets his phone back down on the coffee table, and as he does, the corner of Mike’s notebook catches his eye, sticking out from under the other side of the piano. He skirts around the edge of the piano, reaches down and picks it up. 

The scuffed red cover has a few new doodles on it – a baseball, a saxophone, Harvey’s name – and the cover’s most likely minutely more scuffed. Otherwise it looks much the same, and Harvey flips it open, thumbs through the pages quickly from back to front. No new songs, no changed notes that Harvey can see. _The Battle, Homeward,_ and _5 AM_ all look exactly as Harvey left them last, Harvey’s lyrics penciled in underneath Mike’s notes.

Suddenly Harvey stops, taps the top of the piano with the notebook, and starts to laugh.

_Fucking idiot._

He doesn’t need to write a song. 

They already have three.

+

Harvey grins, eyes shaded by Wayfarer sunglasses as he slides out of the back seat of the town car and looks up at the Pearson Hardman building. He nods at a group of women who pass and do a double take, as if they’re unsure he’s who they think he is. He is. They smile bashfully, duck their heads and whisper amongst themselves as he strides across the pavement and toward the front door.

What a difference forty eight hours makes.

He’s all smiles for everyone he sees. Even catching Tanner, waiting for him across the lobby, does absolutely nothing to dim his mood. 

He’s just so fucking _proud_ of this album, of Mike, of everything they’ve managed to accomplish together. Already it feels more his than any album he and Tanner made. It feels like the beginning it’s supposed to be, not just the beginning it is. A new chapter, a new page, and Mike has everything to do with it. Harvey couldn’t have made this album with anyone but Mike, and that’s as clear as anything. Tanner doesn’t matter anymore.

Maybe Tanner will have a long solo career, maybe he won’t. Harvey doesn’t care. If he weren’t the traitorous asshole he is, Harvey wouldn’t be making the best music of his life. 

That doesn’t mean he’ll be getting a thank you card anytime soon. But it does mean Harvey’s ready to let his song go. 

It was one song. He’ll write another one someday.

This album is _great_ , and Mike is... _everything_ , and that’s terrifying, but it’s also exactly what he wants. Since when has he ever been afraid to go after what he wants?

He’s Harvey Fucking Specter, and he needs to start acting like it.

The elevator doors open and Harvey steps out, looks back at Tanner with a grin, then continues on his way to Jessica’s office. He thinks he hears Tanner step out of the elevator behind him, but he doesn’t look back. 

Jessica’s secretary, Julie, smiles at him when he steps up to her desk and says, “Go on in, Harvey. She’s expecting you.”

Jessica is standing by her wall of windows when he walks in, sipping from her cup of tea. She smiles at him. Sharp, knowing. “Harvey. You’re a little early.”

“Didn’t want to waste your valuable time.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “That remains to be seen.” She steps over to her desk, presses her intercom, and asks her assistant to hold her calls.

When she looks at him expectantly, hand extended, Harvey slips his hand inside his jacket and hands over the album. She takes it, walks over to her sitting area, and plugs it into the system. She sits down in her armchair, crosses her legs, sits back. Her eyes unfocus as she listens, as she sips calmly from her teacup.

If Harvey had a producer more emotive, more willing to show her hand, this part might be easier. But Jessica has never once tipped it, not in the fifteen years he’s known her, so waiting for the album to finish, waiting for her reaction, has always been a little nerve-wracking.

But Harvey knows this album is great. He can hear it in the way one song seems to connect to the next, the snappy transitions, the energy. So he closes his eyes, trusts in that as he lets the album wash over him.

When it finally comes to a close, Harvey’s eyes flutter open to find Jessica watching him, hands clasped together over her crossed knees.

“Mike’s voice isn’t anywhere on the album.”

“Unavoidable. The-”

“Family emergency.” That might be a smile, or Harvey might be imagining things. “I remember. That’s his music?”

Harvey nods. He meets her eye and refuses to look away. “It is. Every note.”

She tilts her head. “You were right.” There’s an uptick of her eyebrow. “He’s good. Much better than Tanner.” She smiles then. “It’s a good album, Harvey. Your best, I’d say. By a wide margin.”

Harvey grins, the tension bleeding away. 

Much as he enjoys the good reviews from Rolling Stone and the praise from his fans, Jessica’s opinion is still one of the precious few that truly matter. Her music knowledge, her taste level, are legendary, and every time he’s handed her an album, he’s worried that he’s minutes away from disappointing her, from not living up to the trust and faith she showed in him at twenty.

“But I don’t think this is the best you’ve got in you.” She eyes him, considering. “I think that’s still to come.”

Harvey allows the smile, the brief duck of the head, lets the pride wash over him. He knew the album was good, but hearing Jessica say it removes any lingering doubts, and makes it real. 

She stands, walks over to her desk, presses the intercom and tells Julie to summon the producers. It’s time for Harvey to perform.

She walks out of her office, and Harvey follows, giving Julie a smile as she stands to follow them. Jessica glides down the hall like a queen, crushing the peasants under her heels with each step. “The day Tanner’s album debuted in the top ten, Daniel walked into my office, smiled like the smug little bastard he is, and told me not everyone backs the right horse.” They’re at the conference room and she stops, turns, hand resting on the door handle, and says, “I’ll show him what a goddamn thoroughbred looks like.”

She sweeps into the room, Harvey just behind, and all eyes immediately land on her. But Harvey only has eyes for Mike, sitting next to Donna at the end of the conference table, looking a little uncomfortable and more than a little confused. Harvey gives him a smile and Mike smiles back, relaxing a little into his chair.

Harvey takes his seat at the piano at the front of the room, and after Jessica sits down and gives him the nod, he starts to play.

He chooses _The Fight_ to start. It’s their most dramatic song, Mike’s tightest and most precise, he thinks, and Harvey loves the way it builds to a crescendo, the way it uses his whole range. It’s the sort of song that’s easy to get lost in, easy to get swept away by. Deserving of a first impression. 

From there he moves to _Someone New_ , just to give them something different. It’s a fun, bright, upbeat _fuck you_ of a song. A playful middle finger to the one who screwed you over. Harvey had originally seen the song as dark, brooding, but Mike was right to flip it on its head. It’s unexpected, and Harvey smiles as the producers laugh along with one of his more clever turns of phrase.

He looks to Jessica and she gives him a nod, so he starts playing _5 AM_ , the last track on the album, and the only song that feels right to close with. The first time Harvey played the notes Mike had scribbled into his notebook, they reminded him of a lullaby, so that’s what the song became: a lullaby and a love letter to early mornings spent wrapped up in the one that matters. Harvey’s never written lyrics for anyone before, but he wrote these for Mike, for the early mornings they spent together, for the soft, almost unconscious way they went from leading two lives to leading one.

Harvey looks up and meets Mike’s eye, gives him a small smile. Mike gives him a tentative smile back, and Harvey looks away.

“Harvey Specter, everyone.”

There’s resounding applause around the conference table and a room full of smiles and knowing nods, and Jessica’s sly smile widens. Hardman looks like someone just punched his mother. 

Roger, a jazz producer Harvey’s had minimal contact with over the years, says, “Harvey, if we’d known songs like this would be the result of you going solo, we would’ve engineered it years ago.”

He laughs heartily and, except for Hardman, the rest of the producers laugh along with him. Harvey can’t help but laugh at the comment, feeling feather light and incredibly satisfied, even as the producers laugh at their own cleverness, as if they could ever engineer Harvey’s life like that. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mike tense and jerk, as if going to stand, and Donna’s too bright, rigid smile, her shoulder leaning into Mike’s slightly.

Mike should know better than to think Harvey would ever double cross him, especially after what happened with Tanner. But he doesn’t blame him for his reaction. It’s gut wrenching when you feel like the thing you want most is being ripped out from under you.

“Thank you, Roger. But I’m not going solo. I just found a much better partner. He wrote all the music you just heard.” Murmurs of interest pass amongst the producers, back and forth across the table, and Harvey adds, “His name is Mike Ross, and he’s sitting right there at the end of the table.”

Harvey smiles at him and Mike stands at Donna’s urging, walks over and stops next to Harvey, giving the producers a nervous nod. Harvey centers a hand on Mike’s back, feels Mike lean in to it, and feels his own smile widen.

Jessica stands, smiles at them, introduces them as a pair to the entire group. The producers clap again, stand, congratulate Harvey and Mike, then break off into small groups to talk amongst themselves. Hardman spares him one look, jaw clenched, before slipping past them and out of the room. 

Jessica turns to him when the focus of the producers is off them and on each other and says, “If you hadn’t come through-”

“No need to finish that sentence. I have an excellent imagination.”

She smiles. “Just so we understand each other.”

“We always have.”

She nods, turns her attention to Mike. “Welcome to Pearson Hardman, Mike.” Her assistant and Donna walk up and she turns to Julie and says, “He needs a haircut, and an appointment with René.” Julie nods, starts writing in the notebook in her hand. “Book the appointment for today, tell him it’s urgent.”

Julie looks up. “You know he hates last minute appointments.”

“If he protests, remind him about Paris. That should make him very agreeable.” Julie gives her a wry smile, looks back down at the notebook. “Get Harold to work up a full bio. Tell him it needs to be on my desk in three hours. As soon as the first single is released in two days, the press will be clamoring for all the information they can get on this kid.”

“Do you want me to put in a call to Vanessa?”

She nods. “Explain the urgency. And call Louis right away.” She gives Mike a significant look. “We need some new contracts drafted.” She turns to Donna. “I’m sure you have some specifics to discuss with me.”

“I do.”

She nods, turns to Harvey and Mike, lifts an eyebrow. “Two days, gentlemen. You’d better get to work.”

She sweeps out of the room with Donna, Julie trailing just behind, and Mike turns to him, wide-eyed, lips parted. Harvey grins. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Fuck you, she’s _terrifying_.”

Harvey laughs, hands in his pockets. “She is.”

“Is that ever going to change?”

“What do you think?”

“Something to look forward to then.” He shifts his weight from his right foot to his left, scratches the back of his neck. “So, I freaked out for a minute there when I thought you’d stolen my song. We should talk about that, probably.”

“I put three of your songs on the album. We can come up with another option, if you want. It might be a tough sell with Jessica, but I’ll make it work.”

“What? No. They’re your songs too. I wrote the music, you wrote the lyrics.”

“Mike, you wrote them before we ever met.”

He nods, shrugs. “Yeah, but they were just notes. You gave them words. You made them into stories. They belong to you just as much as they do to me.”

“Is this him?”

Harvey hadn’t even heard Benjamin walk up, and neither had Mike, if his reaction is anything to go by. Benjamin is giving Mike a clear once over, earbud in one ear, iPod in his hand. Harvey can hear faint music coming from the other earbud, dangling free against Benjamin’s stomach.

“I...guess?”

The look Benjamin levels at Mike is bordering on harshly judgmental, and Harvey stifles his laugh. “That’s him.”

“He doesn’t seem so sure. We don’t need another Tanner.”

“He is.” Mike shakes his head, rolls his eyes, makes a little noise of frustration. “I am. I’m not another Tanner.”

“Good. Because we have a lot of work to do.” He holds up the iPod, shakes it slightly between them. Harvey sent the album through to Benjamin this morning, before leaving for his appointment with Jessica. His opinion, Harvey will readily admit, matters even more than Jessica’s. In their years together, he’s saved Harvey from more than one poor musical choice. “The songs are good, but they’re only a starting point.”

Mike smiles. “You think my songs are good?”

Benjamin scoffs. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course I do. But they’re unrefined.”

Mike practically preens, grins widely and says, “They’re in the right hands, then. Harvey told me you’re the best.”

Benjamin catches Harvey’s eye. It’s true, even if Harvey may never say it out loud. But that’s not what Benjamin wants, anyway. He wants hard work, and he wants respect for his abilities and his process. That’s something Harvey will give him as long as he needs it. Benjamin has been instrumental in his success, second only to Harvey himself in understanding Harvey’s music, in fighting for it. 

Finally, he nods. Harvey returns it. 

Benjamin looks between the both of them, says, “Downstairs in ten minutes. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Benjamin walks briskly out of the room, slipping the hanging earbud into his ear as he walks down the hallway and out of Harvey’s line of sight. 

Mike’s head is turned, still staring at the last spot they saw Benjamin before he slipped the corner. “So that’s Benjamin.”

Harvey smiles. “You’ll get used to him.”

Mike’s head turns, wide grin on his face. “What’s there to get used to? I love him already.”

“You do.”

“ _Yeah_. He’s super protective of you. It’s awesome.”

“I should have asked before I used your music.”

Mike shakes him off. “Nah. They weren’t anything until you got a hold of them. Besides, what’s mine is yours.”

“Mike, you wrote that music before we met.”

“You said that already.” 

“It’s worth repeating.”

He shrugs. “Then it’s worth repeating that they didn’t become songs until you put words to them. That’s what we do, right? I write music, you write lyrics. We meet in the middle.”

“Yeah...that’s what we do.”

Mike grins. “Also there’s _the sex_.”

Harvey rolls his eyes, turns and walks away. “You’re twelve.”

Mike jogs after him. “God, I hope not. That would make you a pedo.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need you. I’ll find some homeless guy on the street, strap a guitar on him. With a little help from a stylist, no one will be able to tell the difference.”

Mike laughs. “Too late. You’re not getting rid of me now.”

“Great.”

+

Benjamin’s studio is located a few floors down, and he’s already at the board, waiting for them, when they arrive.

(Technically it’s Studio B, but no one calls it that. The only artists that record here do so because Benjamin is their engineer. He controls the schedule, he controls the work. Even Jessica respects that.)

Mike reaches out to touch a slider. “What does this do?”

Benjamin slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch the board.” He spins around in his chair, consults the pad of paper in his hand. “I think the order is mostly fine, but I’m going to switch _Reckless_ and _Saving Face_. The transition will be smoother.”

Mike grins. “Sounds good to me.”

“Jessica wants to release your first single in two days, after the press conference. We’re going with _Someone New_.”

“Okay.” Mike opens the door to the live room. “So...do we just start playing, and you record us? I’m gonna need my guitar.” 

Benjamin sighs, shakes his head. “No, you don’t record the entire song at once. It’s a multi track system.” He turns to Harvey. “Didn’t you tell him anything about the way this was going to work?”

“We were a little busy trying to make sure the album got finished in time. So you’d have something to engineer.”

“So multiple tracks. Got it. Where do we start?”

Benjamin eyes him. “Piano.”

“Awesome.” Mike drops his coat on the floor and closes the door to the live room behind him, walking over to sit at the piano. He plops a set of headphones on over his ears, and turns to look at Benjamin through the glass. “Tell me when to start.”

Benjamin holds down the intercom button. “You don’t need sheet music?”

Mike smiles, taps his temple. “All up here.”

Benjamin turns, looks at Harvey, who supplies helpfully, “Eidetic memory.”

“Just tell me when to start.”

+

Donna stops by with their guitars, and has Mike read through and sign his new contract while Harvey’s recording the first guitar part, sheet music on the stand in front of him. The stylist stops by just after with his assistant, and the look Mike gives him through the window is a little terrified and lost. Harvey doesn’t even notice he’s stopped playing until Benjamin’s voice comes through loud and clear, kicking out Donna, René, and his assistant to Mike’s utter relief.

“I only have two days to get this song ready.”

Donna brushes imaginary lint off his shoulder. “And I only have two days to get Mike ready to be presented to the world. Seems we both have a deadline.”

“You’re a distraction. If you need to talk to him, keep it out of the studio. You won’t have anything to present in two days if the song isn’t ready.”

“Please. We both know you’ll get it done regardless, and it’ll be amazing. But it hardly matters. We’re done.”

René swans out of the room and Mike says, “But I...didn’t try anything on.”

Donna just laughs, pats him on the cheek, looks up at Harvey. “ _Adorable._ Positively precious. Can you find me one too?”

“Leave.” 

She laughs, sways her hips as she walks across the room, and when the door closes behind her, Benjamin says, “Can we get back to work now?”

“Uh...” Mike wrinkles his nose, shifts as he holds up a finger. “I have to pee?”

Benjamin sighs. “Go all the way down to the end of the hall. It’s the door on your right.”

Harvey runs through the song a few more times, until Benjamin has what he wants, but Mike still isn’t back from the bathroom, something Benjamin has clearly noticed, judging by his repeated glances at the door.

“I’ll go find him. He probably got distracted by a shiny object.”

“That doesn’t bode well.”

Harvey slips through the doorway and into the hallway. 

The likelihood is that Mike got distracted by all the music memorabilia lining the hallways, or maybe bumped into someone he’s seen on TV, but never met in real life. It’s easy to get distracted here. Paul McCartney’s guitar is hanging on the wall ten feet down from the door to Benjamin’s studio. 

But it isn’t McCartney that has Mike distracted. It’s Tanner, leaning against the wall next to Mike, standing close, smiling.

Tanner looks up at him, grins. “Heya, Harv. I was just getting to know your new partner. You didn’t mention he was so...talented.”

Harvey slips his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t mention him at all.”

“I noticed that.”

“I thought I’d spare him the pain.”

Tanner just smiles, leans into Mike. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Think about what I said.” He squeezes Mike’s arm gently, grins at Harvey, then brushes past him as he walks down the hallway and out of view.

Mike points at the wall across the hall. “Hey...Paul McCartney’s guitar.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Hmm?” Mike shakes his head. “Oh. He wanted me to come work with him. You know...blah blah blah...you’re talented and so am I...blah blah blah...we’d make beautiful music together...blah blah blah. I stopped paying attention when I saw a picture of you on the wall. _Dude_ , a mullet?”

Harvey sighs. “Don’t call me dude. And it was the early nineties, okay?”

Mike’s eyes search his face for a minute, and he says, “You’re not worried are you? Because,” He points at Harvey. “Talented wordsmith,” He points down the empty hallway. “Clichéd hack.” He repeats the action. “Talented wordsmith...clichéd hack.”

Harvey rolls his eyes. “I get it.”

“Do you? Because he was a flaming jackass to you, and there is absolutely nothing that would ever make me jump ship.” He pauses. “I’m crazy about you, don’t you know that?”

Harvey does know that. He does. Mike is guileless. He projects everything he’s feeling, all the time. It would be exhausting if it weren’t so refreshing. He’ll learn to hide that in public, to keep his feelings away from interviewers and paparazzi, and anyone only interested in the story. But Harvey hopes he never loses that entirely. 

“Also, there’s _the sex_.”

“Jesus.”

Harvey turns toward the studio and Mike laughs and follows behind, bumping into him as he comes up alongside him. “No, but seriously, can we talk about the mullet?”

Benjamin pulls the door open and says, “Maybe I didn’t stress this firmly enough, but we have less than two days to get this song done. At the rate we’re going we won’t have it done in two months.”

Mike pats him on the shoulder as he passes. “No worries, Benny boy, we’re here, and we’re ready to work.”

Benjamin sighs heavily, shuts the door behind Harvey. “ _Benjamin_ , Michael. Benjamin. I’m not a five year old with a lisp.”

Mike holds his hands up in apology from behind the glass. “Benjamin. Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Mike slips the guitar over his body, pulls a pair of headphones on, gives Harvey a huge smile as he adjusts the strap.

Mike is going to kill at the press conference. He’s worried about it, Harvey knows, but he shouldn’t be. He’ll say something self-effacing, he’ll smile, he’ll laugh self-consciously, he’ll talk about how grateful he is, how lucky, and he’ll charm the shit out of all of them. 

This is where Mike belongs. Harvey knew it the minute he met him. It’s about time Mike figured that out too.

He won’t be Harvey’s little secret for much longer.

“Okay, Mike. From the top.”

+

Mike is still asleep, splayed over Harvey, when the call comes. Harvey had just been about to slip out from under him to go make breakfast, but he picks up the phone instead, speaking quietly.

“Hello?”

“What are you doing?”

“I _was_ sleeping.”

“Liar. Mike is still asleep, probably cuddled up to you like a puppy. You were awake, and trying to decide between French or Italian roast.”

She’s not wrong.

“I have something better. Wake him up.”

“Donna, it’s our day off. We were in the studio until one AM. I’m letting him sleep as long as he likes.”

“ _Someone New_ is premiering in three minutes. He’ll want to be awake for that.”

Harvey thanks her, and she tells him to have some celebratory sex on her. He hangs up to her raucous laughter.

“Mike?” Harvey threads his fingers gently through Mike’s hair and Mike mumbles in response, burying his face in the bare skin of Harvey’s shoulder. “Mike.”

“Are you waking me up to have your way with me? Because that’s the only reason I would want to be awake right now.”

“This is better.”

He snorts. “Better than your dick in my ass? Likely story.”

Harvey turns the radio on the nightstand on, tuning to the channel Donna gave him. They’re greeted by the DJs, saying something about Kim Kardashian.

“Yayyyy? Unimportant celebrity news?” 

Harvey grips Mike’s hair and pulls his head back gently. Kisses him and says, “Just give it a minute.”

Mike drops his head back on Harvey’s chest, closes his eyes and mumbles into his skin. “If you insist.”

_So we haven’t heard much from Harvey Specter in the last few years, have we?_

_Nope, not much. Been laying low._

_Well, apparently that’s changed, because he has a new single out. Did you catch the press conference yesterday?_

_I did._

_So you know he’s writing with someone new. Out with Travis Tanner and in with..._

_Mike Ross._

_Right, Mike Ross. No one’s ever heard of this guy before. Where did he come from?_

_Not sure I care, so long as he keeps making music._

_This is- I mean, stop me if you think I’m wrong here, but this is the best thing Harvey Specter’s ever written._

_No, you’re totally right. I absolutely agree._

_We’ll let you guys be the judges yourselves, but if this is an indication of what the album’s going to be like, we’re beyond excited._

_Sooo pumped._

_Alright guys, here it is: Harvey Specter and Mike Ross...Someone New. Premiering right now on Ninety-three point three, the Fox._

The first, bright notes of the song jump in and Mike sits up abruptly, the sheet falling away.

“Harvey! Harvey, that’s our song!”

Harvey grins. “Yeah.”

“That’s our _song_.” Mike straddles him, bends down and kisses him. He plants his hands on the pillow, grins. “Our song.”

He brings his hands up to rest high on Mike’s bare thighs. “You’re on the radio.”

“I’m on the radio.” He shakes his head. “No, we’re on the radio.” He sits back, rests his hand on Harvey’s chest. “This wouldn’t have happened without you.”

“I just got your foot in the door. You did the hard work.”

“No, it’s more than that. You gave me more than that.” He sucks in a breath and seems to steel himself before he says, “My life was shit when you came into it.”

Harvey sits up, braces a hand on Mike’s lower back. “Mike-”

“I was a half second away from being a drug mule. I would have done it, too, and I probably would have gotten caught.”

He looks away a moment before looking back at Harvey. Harvey’s eyes are fixed on Mike, watching every single emotion play across his face. Harvey holds his breath, brings a hand up to cup Mike’s jaw.

“When you walked into Powell’s, I knew exactly who you were.” He smiles a little, says sort of begrudgingly, “You’re even better looking in person.”

Harvey smiles softly. “Good to know.”

“But it’s not just a job, it’s...” He sighs, works his jaw. “I’m struggling here. I’m not the words guy.”

“You don’t have to be. That’s why we make a good team.”

He swallows, breathes deep, and when he finally speaks, his words come out in an abrupt burst. “I love you.” He exhales, kisses Harvey hard, breathes out, “Fuck me, you’re incredible.”

“Fuck you?” Harvey grins. “If you insist.”

Harvey kisses him, Mike’s face held between both hands. Mike shifts closer, wraps an arm around Harvey’s neck. The other hand traces a path down Harvey’s ribs, comes to rest on his hip. Their kisses are slow, and Harvey sinks into each one like it’s new, like it’s the first of many more to come. Mike’s mouth breaks off of his to plant kisses under Harvey’s jaw, down his throat, along his shoulder, and Harvey drops one hand to slide down Mike’s back, to cup his ass where the sheet has fallen away.

Mike kisses back up Harvey’s throat, finds his mouth again and Harvey kisses him back, puts everything into it, Mike letting Harvey take control, going just the smallest bit boneless.

When Harvey finally pulls back, Mike smiles at him a little muzzily, and nudges Harvey’s nose with his own, licking his lips. Harvey rests his forehead against Mike’s, says Mike’s name softly.

Mike hums, his eyelashes fluttering. 

“You’re the partner I should have had all along.”

Mike sits back enough to look Harvey in the eye, wraps a hand around the back of Harvey’s neck. He grins, feathers his fingers through the hair at the nape. “Wasn’t I like, nine when you released your first single?” 

“You were a prodigy. You could’ve handled it.”

Mike laughs into Harvey’s mouth as he kisses him, and Harvey grins, pulls at Mike’s lower lip with his teeth.

“I love you.”

Mike traces Harvey’s bottom lip with the pads of his fingers, and Harvey nips at them. Mike smiles softly, happiness practically shining out of his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome,” he breathes out, and grasps Harvey’s face with both hands, kissing him fiercely.

Mike is his exception, Mike is nothing he ever saw coming, Mike is a lightning bolt.

Harvey’s not sure if he fell in love with Mike right there, in the doorway to Powell’s, but he knows it’s possible. He was arrested at the sight of him, at Mike’s talented fingers on the piano keys, at the slightly slumped way he sat there, at home in a place that wasn’t his to feel at home in. He’d wanted to freeze that moment, stand in the doorway and watch as Mike moved through every song he knew. 

There are countless songs written about love, some of them even by Harvey. But as hard as they try or as close as they come, none of them really tell you what love is. And now it seems obvious why. Love isn’t an idea, or a feeling. It’s a person.

It’s Mike.

He changed everything. Harvey’s world was off its axis, and Mike righted it. He’s beautiful, and talented, and Harvey will be forever grateful Mike showed up at his apartment that night, Harvey’s crumpled card in his hand.

He’ll write a song about it one day. It’ll be the most honest love song he knows.

Mike rises up on his knees, brushes Harvey’s arm with his right hand as their kisses start to build, become just a touch more desperate. Harvey’s eyes snap open when he feels Mike grab his wrist and pour liquid on his fingers and Harvey rubs his fingers together gently, locks eyes with Mike as he lets Mike grasp his hand, guiding his fingers to rest at the edge off his rim.

Mike leans forward again, kisses him, sighs into Harvey’s mouth when the first finger breaches him. 

He makes little noises, pants increasing with each new finger, hips starting to rock faster. When Harvey slips the third finger in, Mike’s mouth breaks off of Harvey’s and he buries his face in Harvey’s neck, mouthing at the bare skin. The fingers of his left hand dig into Harvey’s back and his right reaches down between their bodies to grab at his cock. Mike moans his name, rolls his hips, and when Mike has finally been worked open enough, Harvey pulls his fingers out, pulls his legs under him, and lays Mike down.

Mike is looking up at him from the end of the bed, panting, right hand working his cock, ass resting on Harvey’s thighs, and Harvey can’t grab the bottle of lube fast enough. Mike watches him slick himself up, gasps when Harvey grabs his thighs and thrusts forward, rising up on his knees. He throws his head back against the mattress, wraps his legs around Harvey.

Harvey is deliberate, torturously slow, sliding all the way in before pulling out almost completely, and Mike groans, pulls at his cock, clenches at the sheet with the other hand.

“Harvey, _please_.”

He gives in just the smallest bit, increasing his speed a hair, thrusting hard when he bottoms out, and Mike moans, arches his back, rolls his hips to meet the thrusts like a champ. He wants more, so much more, but he’ll have to be a good boy, be patient. Harvey wants this to last.

Harvey slowly, steadily, increases his thrusts, Mike panting harder and harder, moans growing, hips rolling every time to meet Harvey’s thrusts just right. He’s leaking all over his belly, arms thrown out to his side, just _taking_ whatever Harvey gives him, pants so desperate, so harsh, and Harvey leans forward, gathers Mike in his arms. He lifts him up to sit astride his lap, holds Mike up across the waist with one hand, cradles the back of his head in another as he fucks up into him fiercely. Mike is so done he comes with a shout, spilling between them, burying his head in Harvey’s neck and going nearly boneless as Harvey continues to fuck him.

Harvey fists a hand in Mike’s hair, pulls his head back far enough to steal a kiss. Mike lets him, meets his eyes as Harvey pulls back, blissed out and smiling as Harvey holds him up, continues to fuck into him until he can’t hold back any longer, movements becoming erratic as he comes, dropping his head to rest against Mike’s bare shoulder. When he finally stills, Mike threads his hand into Harvey’s hair, pulls his head back to kiss him, turnabout being fair play. Harvey sinks into it as he grabs the sheet, pulls it up to wrap around Mike’s cooling, naked body.

Mike is a sucker punch, Mike is a muse, Mike is a talented son of a bitch whose naked ass fits perfectly on Harvey’s piano bench and in Harvey’s arms.

Mike is a crescendo with no end in sight, growing steadily stronger.

And Harvey’s a lucky bastard.


End file.
